So Let Us Not Talk Falsely Now
by Visi0nary
Summary: All this has happened before... Everything that exists is caught up in and eventually lost in the cycle that began with Judgment Day. Now the cycle must be broken. John/Cameron, Leoben/Sarah
1. Forward

**PREFACE: I do not own any of these characters; they belong to, for good or ill, their respective owners, whether or not they choose to use them to their full potential.**

**This story is a Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles story based on the assumption that both _Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles_ and the reimagined _Battlestar Galactica_ occur in the same universe. **

**In _Galactica_ canon this story begins during the events of _Sometimes a Great Notion_ and is AU from that point, with spoilers from all of Season 4.5, specifically the episode _No Exit_. "The Real Earth" is the only Earth, with no "new Earth" and "150,000 years ago..." nonsense. In _Sarah Connor Chronicles_ canon this story begins during the events of _Today is the Day _and goes fully AU during the events of _Adam Raised a Cain_. Spoilers are present throughout Season 2.**

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**03.20.2009 | 05:29 | PM | PST**

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* * *

**_"YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"_

Few and far between were the times Sarah Connor could remember her son showing her such blatant disrespect. It wasn't entirely unexpected that he'd be angry as he'd just found out that his... girlfriend, if that's even how he thought of her... was dead.

What _was _unexpected was that he didn't seem the least bit saddened by it, as though he... expected it?

_"There's nothing to talk about, is there? Because Riley's dead."_ He'd displayed no emotion either in his voice or his mannerisms.

But there had been plenty of emotion behind his defense of... _her_.

_"How do you think that happened?" _she'd asked.

_"I don't know. I'm gonna figure it out, though."_

What was she to make of the fact that it seemed so important to him to prove her innocence?

In reality she didn't know which one of them to be more furious with. For all her "human" qualities, Cameron was a poor manipulator- to the point that Sarah questioned whether or not she'd truly been created to be an infiltrator. She had a hard time visualizing John being coerced into helping the cyborg stockpile the various pieces of Terminator endoskeletons that she'd discovered "hidden" half-assed amongst the various things stored in the garage only moments before he'd walked in on her.

They'd been thick as thieves in this endeavor, that much was certain. Where were their heads? They both knew the consequences of even a small piece of future technology falling into the wrong hands and yet they'd saved enough parts from the thermite pyre to construct an entire Terminator. It only needed a skull, a chip, gift wrapping and a card that read, "Merry Christmas, and a happy Judgment Day!"

For Sarah the larger issue, beyond the possibility of hoarding hardware that could be used to create Skynet, was one of trust. This, more than anything else, proved that John was losing trust for his mother- which made his earlier expression of faith in Cameron even more difficult to stomach.

_"I'm sure... because I know her... and because she told me."_

When it came to her it was just that simple. 'I know her. She told me.' He trusted Cameron. And why not? If she looked at it logically the girl had earned his trust time and time again. She'd saved his life more times than Sarah could count. When she and Derek had objected to interfacing her chip with the ARTIE system he'd trusted her. When she'd lost her cybernetic mind after the car bombing she and Derek wanted her destroyed, but he gave her another chance. And each time she'd proven herself worthy.

But Sarah wasn't thinking logically, she was thinking with her heart. Her heart was consumed with only one emotion- _jealousy._

She'd left the garage behind and gone for a walk, desperate to clear her head.

It hadn't helped.

She couldn't stop thinking about their last conversation. It was a microcosm of everything their life had become- lies, secrets, manipulation and anger.

Ever since _that _day. The car bombing, John killing Sarkissian to save her, and the unforgettable... revelation.

_"I love you, John! And you love me!"_

She would never forget the scene, the cyborg's body trapped between the trucks, pleading for all she was worth that John not remove her chip and crush it. As much as Sarah disliked her, she'd still felt like she was torturing an already wounded animal.

But to tell John that she loved him, to _lie _to him like that. For all their inhumanity Terminators were supposed to be smart- especially the ones John sent back to be his protectors. She didn't know the John of the future, the one who'd sent Cameron back. She had no idea what he was like, if he was anything like _her _John. But she expected that he knew what he was like at this age and what being in close proximity to a... girl... like Cameron would do to him; what hearing her tell him that she loved him would do to him...

Or had he truly become the bastard Derek Reese sometimes spoke of? Could he have sent her back with the intention of her being the bane of his mother's existence, his revenge for the unwanted fate she'd been grooming him for since his birth?

And there was that nagging thought, the one Sarah was sure would bother her until the day either she or Cameron died. 'Could she _really _love him?'

She'd done her best not to think about that question, not wanting to deal with the others that came along with it, 'How can a machine understand love?' or 'Who could create a machine capable of love? Certainly not Skynet.' She recalled the dream in which she'd seen Cameron in a nursery, handing the baby turtle to Cromartie, for once not needing John to help her understand a science-fiction reference- she'd seen _Blade Runner _when it first ran in the theaters so many years ago now.

But that was only in Sarah's paranoid mind.

Far more telling than the supposed portents of a dream were the truths of women's intuition. The first time she'd noticed she'd given it up for a play on her emotions. But there were other times, when Cameron didn't know Sarah was looking, that it was unmistakable- the way she would stare at Riley, the way she would follow her and John out the door and watch, with a look of anger she didn't bother to disguise, not the frustration that her charge was going off without her protection, but the real anger of a young girl with a crush seeing "her" boy with another girl. And there was the way she would single John out like he was the only one in the room. She'd done it a lot when she'd first joined them, but gradually she'd learned that it was considered rude. But when Riley was there she was more focused on him than at any other time. And once Sarah was certain that she saw satisfaction on Cameron's face when Riley had gotten annoyed with her presence. And once the cyborg seemed genuinely surprised when Sarah caught her.

It was a universal truth- jealousy looked the same on every woman. Some showed more or less than others, but the look was always the same. If she'd had a mirror a few moments ago she'd have seen that look staring back at her.

These were the thoughts that kept Sarah Connor awake at night- thoughts that compelled her with ever greater frequency to turn to sleeping pills.

And when she realized where her walk had taken her, her mind switched its focus to the other conundrum that made sleep so elusive lately- the three dots drawn in blood on her basement wall.

She'd hardly been down here since the day "Wells," the wounded resistance fighter, spent his last moments leaving her a message in blood. It had faded to a dark brown, as blood tended to do once it left the body, but everything was still legible... or as legible as it could be. That included the pattern that had captivated her so much since she'd first seen it.

She'd been convinced this was a hidden message, but her early attempts to decipher it had ended in failure and further alienation from John.

It had become a quest to her, though Derek, and possibly even John, would call it an obsession. She'd seen the pattern in the engine configuration of the drone that she'd first seen at Desert Canyon Heat & Air, and the others had later seen it. She should have felt vindicated, but she wasn't. From her perspective it was just an amazing coincidence.

Though she'd not acted on it she'd continued to hold to the belief that there was something deeper in the message than a warning that someone in their time had created a new type of Predator drone.

There were streams of dried blood that had flowed down from the dots. He'd fallen to his death not long after making that mark, she was sure of it. She felt compelled to crouch down about the spot where his head came to rest as he died. She regarded another pattern in the blood, one they'd noticed before but that made even less sense than the others. She turned to face the wall and cocked her head to the side, looking at it from the perspective he'd have written it from as he lay on the ground, wondering why none of them hadn't thought to do this before. Originally they'd thought that the scribble was a bastardized number nine, but now... she could be mistaken, but she was sure in her mind that she saw, instead of the word "nine" four numerals- "2-1-5-9."

Then, acting on an impulse that came to her without rhyme or reason, she stood up, reached her hand out and pressed her thumb, pointer and middle fingers to the pattern.

'I have officially lost my mind,' she thought. Did she expect that touching it would make something happen? Was the wall going to open up and lead her to the answer? Was she going to have a vision that would make it all make sense?

* * *

**TIME INDETERMINATE**

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* * *

**With a flash before her eyes the basement and the wall of bloody clues was gone and she found herself in the cockpit of a plane which she, in less than a split second, realized she had no idea how to fly. She looked about her, quickly realizing that she wasn't flying through the atmosphere of a planet, but _through space_.

And she heard music.

'Get it together, Connor, this is just a dream, or a hallucination! You're going to wake up in a few seconds and this is all going to have been...' Her thinking processes stopped as she noticed another craft through the plane's canopy, growing larger with each second. Her's was clearly the faster moving of the two. She had presence of mind enough to examine the instrument panel for the plane's equivalent of a speedometer, but found that she had never seen anything that even remotely resembled the mesh of digital displays beyond the flight stick.

Then without consciously willing it her hand reaffirmed its grip on the control column and gently maneuvered the plane to starboard. It wasn't the clumsy or forced motion of a person that had no idea how they went from sitting in a basement to piloting a space plane, but the experienced control of a seasoned aviator. Then, once again without realizing she'd done it, she forcefully swung the craft back to port and straight at the other plane.

She desperately tried to pull up on the stick, but there was nothing there to control. It was like she couldn't even feel her body. She was certain her plane was going to collide with the other.

But at the last second, just before the two ships would have smashed into each other, she pulled up smoothly, passing over top of the other plane and likely scaring the other pilot half to death.

A voice, a male voice, blared through the helmet she was wearing, _"Whoa, what the FRACK?!"_

She found herself inexplicably laughing. 'What the hell? I'm flying a plane I have no idea how to fly and I'm... toying with another pilot? _And where is that music coming from?!_' It sounded... otherworldly, haunting even, but identify a melody she couldn't. She could barely hear it, yet it seemed to be more present than any of the sounds being generated by her ship. Was it coming through the speakers in her helmet?

She arched the plane back around such that she was behind her fellow pilot. She eased back on the throttle, thankfully slowing the craft as it pulled up alongside the other plane on its port side. She was scared more than she'd ever been- even more than when the T-1000 had turned its liquid metal finger into a spike and shoved it through her, bidding her call out for John to reveal himself. The last thing she wanted was to face this other pilot, to see how close their ships were to each other for fear she'd jerk and slam right into him.

Involuntarily she turned toward him. "Hi Lee," she said evenly. 'Lee? How do I know this guy?' It seemed like the silliest question, given the circumstances.

She examined "Lee's" facial features; he was handsome... no, cute was the more appropriate term. He didn't look old enough to be "handsome." He appeared to be in his early to mid thirties.

_"Kara?" _he finally questioned, his eyes wide with disbelief as though he was seeing a ghost.

'Kara? Who the hell is Kara? It's Sarah! Don't look at me like that, you obviously know what's going on! Why can't I say anything?' She felt like a prisoner in her own... or was it her own body? She seemed to know how to fly this plane and who this man was. In more ways than one, "Kara" seemed to be the one in the pilot's seat. Without ordering it her mouth spoke again, "Don't freak out, it really is me," she said with a chuckle, obviously enjoying "Lee's" discomfort. Then she spoke again, "It's going to be okay. I've been to Earth. I know where it is. And I'm going to take us there."

"Lee" was taken aback even more by the mention of Earth. 'Whoa, I'm going to take _who_ to Earth? And if they're not _from_ Earth...'

"No," 'Lee' replied. "No, no, this is fracking crazy. I saw your ship blow up!"

"'Fraid not. Did you not hear me? I've been to Earth!" 'Yeah, well, I live there, and I'd like to go back, so would someone tell me what is happening to me?'

Lee, for his part, continued to look stunned. "_Earth?_"

"Earth. Big blue oceans, fluffy white clouds. You're gonna love it. I promise."

Another male voice came through the helmet headset, and obviously they both heard it as Lee's attention turned back towards the controls of his own... Viper... 'Viper? Okay, it's called a Viper. How do I know that?'

"_All players, Galactica. Threat B-R-350, carom 211, Raptors, lean back as missile pickets! Weapons free!" _Sarah had no idea what any of that meant, but "Kara" obviously did. She flipped several switches and a number of displays came to life, clearly indicating even to Sarah that the ships weapons had just gone hot.

"Don't lose me this time, Apollo," she said. 'Apollo? I thought his name was Lee. She noticed in that moment a name plate below the other ship's canopy, one that read:

_**-----**_

_**MAJOR LEE ADAMA  
**_

_**"APOLLO"**_

_**-----  
**_

'Ah, okay. Your call-sign. So which of us is Goose and which one is Maverick?'

"Oh, not a chance," 'Apollo' replied.

With another flash the scene before her shifted. She was piloting through a convoy of ships, _huge _ships, of all different designs. There were hundreds of smaller craft just like her own buzzing about, either chasing or being chased by a swarm of dissimilar ships that resembled insects. For a moment she was grateful that she wasn't controlling the body or the ship. Were she, she was certain, she would be dead in short order. It was impossible to keep up with the body's motions, or the events taking place beyond the canopy. 'Too fast, this is all happening too fast,' she thought. She wondered if the pilot she was sharing a body with was taking the time to notice her targeting scanner. Each time it locked on to an enemy ship the image disappeared almost as quickly. Was she that good that she could target on sight alone?

Then the scene changed again and she was flying towards what looked like a giant aircraft carrier in space- the lettering on the hull spelling out the word, _"Galactica." _With well practiced skill she brought the vessel to rest on a well-worn landing deck.

Sarah started to feel sick as her perspective changed again. She was climbing down from the ship, bidding a deck hand in a fluorescent orange jumpsuit to "develop my gun camera footage ASAP" and get her a "post-flight checklist" so she could "sign out" and get to the shower.

Like Lee, the man... "Tyrol" she knew his name to be... looked at her like he was seeing a ghost. Then a number of others surrounded the ship, notably a tall, clean cut younger man in an officers uniform, a younger Asian woman and a younger Caucasian woman- both with dark hair pulled back tightly. 'Helo... Athena... and Racetrack... How do I know these people?!' Could they tell? They were all eying her so suspiciously! What did they see when they looked at her? Was it possible that instead of their friend and colleague Kara... "Thrace," _Captain _Kara Thrace: call-sign "Starbuck" according to the nameplate on her ship which she'd noticed as she came down the ladder, but Sarah Connor instead? No, 'Apollo' had called her Kara as soon as he laid eyes on her! The feeling of disorientation was increasing, and she wondered if her host felt it.

The crowd parted to make way for Lee, who pulled her into the crushing embrace of a... lover? What to say? Her host answered for her, patting the man on the back, "Okay, okay! Me too! It's okay... it's okay..." Then he released her, just in time for another man, slightly taller than Lee with a thick head of dark hair and who was a better match for the term "handsome," pulled her into another tight embrace. 'Well, I guess "Kara" is popular with the men-folk. I wonder if I'll get a chance to see what she looks like?'

He looked down at her, like he hadn't seen her in months. "I told everyone you were too frackin' mean to kill!"

Her host laughed, and smiled. "Okay! I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay." 'Would someone tell me if this word "frack" I keep hearing means what I think it means?'

"STARBUCK," came a voice from above like thunder. "Kara" whipped her head around, knowing both who had been speaking and where to look for him. It came from a walkway just a few steps across the bay from where she'd landed.

With a look of elation her host ran from her ship, Lee and... Sam... Anders... the other man who'd hugged her taking up positions just behind her on either side. She stopped just below a narrow set of stairs that led up to the walkway, looking up at the weather-worn face of the man who'd been her surrogate father- Admiral William Adama. "I did it boss," she said. "I found Earth!"

Sarah knew there were things in existence that most people wouldn't be able to believe in: time travel, advanced artificial intelligences that declare war on humanity, cyborgs, so she could take a lot on faith, but the idea that there were... aliens? Is that what these people were? They looked human enough to her. 'So does Cameron. So did the T-800s. So did Vick and Cromartie. So did the T-1000. Okay, so they're not from Earth. Where are they from, then? Why are they looking for Earth? No one from the future ever mentioned people from space visiting Earth.'

She'd been so lost in thought she hadn't noticed a number of men in black uniforms surround her, weapons drawn. 'What the...?'

"I need you in sickbay. Cottle's gonna give you a complete physical examination," the Admiral said in a more intimidating tone than she'd ever used with John.

'I give up,' Sarah thought. She had no idea what she was seeing, but she knew that there would be no answers forthcoming.

"Okay, what the hell's going on? I'm off the ship for a few hours and everybody's acting... " her host was cut off by the one called Anders.

"A few hours? Kara you were gone for over two months!"

Her host was taken aback with this comment. And even more when Lee added, "It's true, Kara. We thought you were dead."

Even Sarah didn't know what to think.

Another flash brought Sarah from the brightly lit landing bay to a dimly lit private room. The Admiral was there, as was a dark haired, well-dressed woman with glasses. Sarah could tell an interrogation when she saw one. But for some reason her vision wasn't as clear and the words of the others were muffled. It was hard to concentrate. Rather than hearing sentences in a conversation she seemed to only be able to make out bits and pieces. And it was getting harder to think. The feeling of sickness in her stomach was getting worse.

"So I'm me; I'm not a Cylon?"

"Let's go through it again."

"How many times...to hear it?"

"As many as it takes..."

"I followed...into the storm...passed out...orbiting this planet...yellow moon...star patterns...tomb of Athena..."

"How did you get here..."

"Don't know exactly..."

"...not good enough..."

"...reciprocal heading...blacked out...gas giant...flashing triple star...comet..." 'triple star? Three dots?'

"...six hours?"

"...time discrepancy..."

The flash came again, but this time the effect was nowhere near as noticable. Like everything else, it was muted, blurred. She could see a backlit table table before her, and a transparent map- a star chart. One of the people that came up to her earlier, Helo, was with her.

"Nobody believes me..."

"...find that...system."

"...doesn't work like that...feeling...intuition...clarity fades..."

Again her vision shifted and "Helo" was replaced by the Admiral.

"...wrong way. If we keep jumping... lose the feeling...never...take us back...I swear...trust me!"

"I can't..."

'Ugh, the music!' It was so soft and at the same time so deafening. She could almost make out a lyric:

_"...you and I..."_

_"...through that..."_

_"...not...fate..."_

_"...talk falsely..."_

_"...hour...late..." _

It was... _familiar_. Where had she heard it before?

_"...2-1-5-9"_

Another flash- she... Kara is screaming; _"WE'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!"_

One final time her perception shifted and she found her vision almost gone. She could only see the briefest flashes of what was around her and she could hear almost nothing; nothing _except _the music. 'Where is it coming from?' Was it in her head? Each time she'd "shifted" from memory to memory the damn music was more prominent than anything else she could hear, but it was somehow still next to impossible to hear. She realized that she wasn't alone- she could make out the face of a man, a ruggedly handsome man lighter of hair and eyes than the others, and a lot less eager to hug her to the point of strangulation. But he was still standing close to her- intimately close. She could feel the heat of his skin, their faces nearly touching as he guided her hand. She was painting on a wall, with his hand directing her motions. The picture was one of a solar system- a star, a planet and a comet streaking past the planet. The comet had a distinct, almost artificial shape; sleek, pointed and arranged like an arrowhead... or a triangle- a triangle with each of its points glowing as the light of the star reflected off of them.

The pattern was unmistakable.

A woman was reaching out to her, a pale woman covered in sweat and sitting in a... bathtub? She was talking, but Sarah could only make out three words: _"harbinger of death."_

* * *

The last things she remembered were the world as she knew it coming back into perfect view, the silent solace of the basement, her fingers pulling away from the wall as she fell backward, and a voice- the voice of her lost love crouching down beside her, comforting her.

"It's alright, Sarah. Everything will be alright."

"Kyle..." she said, her voice weak as she spoke his name.

He reached out to her, his hand only centimeters from her face, but she could feel no warmth from his touch as though it wasn't truly there.

He smiled at her, that same amazing smile that she'd seen far to little of in their brief time together, and then spoke: "You weren't ready. Forget now. All will be revealed _in time._"

And forget she did as she slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

The entity wearing the face of the man known as Kyle Reese regarded the fallen woman. He wished he could reach out and touch her, but to totally pass through the dimensional barrier that separated their realms required more energy than was currently at his disposal.

His was a fitting disguise, for Reese fought so hard in the war that his kind were trying to prevent. It was a conflict that was both the beginning and the end of humanity _and _their offspring, a conflict that had yet to truly start but that had already been decided. 'All this has happened before,' as the saying went.

Before long she'd understand, but for now she was... stunned. Of course to her it would appear that she'd passed out. In a sense she had. Her mind had "passed out," but not her body. Of course her nervous system was likely extremely confused by the signals her brain was currently passing along to it.

'Dammit, I told them she wasn't ready for this!' The woman's grip on sanity was tenuous at best and having a vision was the last thing she needed. He'd appeared to her before in moments of weakness, but never had he tried to speak to her mind.

His superiors insisted that today was the day. He disagreed.

And now her mind was overwhelmed by sights of worlds beyond her own and across the expanse of time, of people she'd already forgotten, but whom she'd remember when the time was right, only to eventually forget again.

'Why do we toy with their minds this way,' he wondered. He knew the answer, as they all did, but he couldn't help but think there was a better way.

* * *

'Tylenol... Must. Have. Tylenol!'

The feeling came upon her suddenly, without warning, bringing a terrible headache along with it. One moment she'd been staring at the wall, the names, the numbers 2-1-5-9, and the dots... how long had she been staring at them? And why did she feel so disoriented?

'This is what I get for coming down here and staring at these things.' She shook her head, laughing. 'And I thought touching them was going to give me all the answers.'

Eager to get her hands on some Tylenol, _after _she washed them, she left the basement and the bloody wall behind, humming a tune as she walked along. When she reached the living room she stopped, suddenly aware of the sound of music playing the same catchy riff she'd been humming. She looked about her. Neither the stereo or the TV was on and there was no sound coming from either John or Cameron's rooms. She placed her ear against the shared wall between the two units of the duplex... nothing. In fact, there was nothing but silence all around her. The sound vanished as quickly as it came. This was extremely strange. She knew the difference between the sound of a person humming and the sound of instruments. She'd clearly heard a piano, a bass and... a guitar? No... something else... a sitar?

'First I'm seeing three dots everywhere I look. Now I'm gonna start hearing music playing out of thin air.'

She disregarded the experience, chalking it up to her mind playing tricks on her and resumed her journey to the medicine cabinet only vaguely aware that she was still humming the simple melody made up of only three note- C-sharp, E and A; _"Dmm-Dmm-Dmm-Dmp, Dmp-Dmmmmmm, Dmm-Dmm-Dmp..."_


	2. Chapter 1

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**PACIFIC INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY - QUANTUM PHYSICS LABORATORY  
NEAR THE RUINS OF SYLMAR, CALIFORNIA  
APPROXIMATELY TWO-THOUSAND YEARS LATER  
**

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_"You are the harbinger of death, Kara Thrace; you will lead them all to their end."_

Leoben hadn't been there when the hybrid uttered those words, but he knew she had.

Unfortunately that knowledge did nothing to help lessen the shock of hearing those words from Kara's mouth as she stood over her own charred corpse.

He didn't know in that moment what shocked him the most, the realization that she finally accepted that all he'd been trying to do was help her realize her destiny or the possibility that she was the last of the final five.

Or was it his cowardice that shocked him so? He'd fled from her like the corpse had been the one speaking. For the first time she'd actually needed him. Wanting her to want him- that hadn't been part of the plan, but it had happened. The intensity of the feeling scared him.

'Maybe that's why I ran away like a frightened child.'

Perhaps not a child, but frightened all the same. 'How could I have been so right and so wrong?'

For years her perception, and that of practically everyone else, was that he was nothing more than a sexual predator with a dangerous obsession. That's what Natalie had called it, an obsession. But Natalie didn't see the bigger picture- none of them did.

He wanted to believe that Kara knew better, especially after what they shared on the _Demetrius_, but he couldn't fault her prior to that. She'd seen Simon's house of horrors on Caprica. If he'd only known that he would have gone about things on New Caprica differently. It wasn't about obsession, it wasn't even about love.

'She knew that. _Eventually_.'

He'd made the mistake of making her think that it was about making her love him because he didn't know all the details of Simon's little game, specifically her discovery of the breeding farms. Of course, the butcher withheld that little bit of information. Leoben only knew that Simon had captured and treated her under the guise of a doctor with the Caprican Resistance and that she'd escaped when she realized that he was anything but.

'Of course she'd figured it out. How could she not?' Simon may have been a brilliant surgeon and genetic engineer, but that was the extent of his knowledge of the human psyche. What one would call "people skills" he lacked entirely. And he was no actor. From a psychological perspective, he may as well have been brain dead. He would have never been chosen as an infiltrator had the goal been to actually use Kara like the other poor women who'd been caught for use in the twisted breeding experiments Simon dreamed up. It seemed odd at the time that Cavil had gone along with that, given his disdain for all things biological. No, Cavil had set Simon up to fail. He'd been manipulating all of them since the beginning.

_'_You may have been manipulating us, "Brother," but something else was manipulating you.'

Thinking of Cavil... 'John' Cavil, as he now knew the true name of the twisted creature designated "Number One," made him chuckle- despite the dire circumstances he now found himself in.

Here he was surrounded by technology he barely understood, in an underground cavern sealed by two Centurions on his orders, on a barren planet he'd never seen outside of his dreams.

And this cinder of a planet looked nothing like it did in his dreams.

Or were they visions?

He never truly experienced what the others would call a vision before this place. He knew of the visions shared by Laura Roslin, Caprica Six and the Eight known as Sharon Agathon. They weren't simple dreams- they were imitations of reality. His visions, dreams, whatever they were, were never that vivid.

He remembered how Caprica Six had sought him out when the rebels joined the fleet. She'd never really cared for him, or his way of thinking. She related that once, before her visions began, that she'd jokingly told Baltar that he thought God spoke through the hybrid, and that everything she said had meaning, even though she felt everything the hybrid said was nonsense. "'The ones you know as Leoben,' I told him. The implication was that you were strange for thinking that way. I suppose at the time I thought you were, even though I also told him, 'maybe Leoben's right,'" she'd said, "even though I didn't believe it. I should have. I should have believed everything you said."

Then she described her visions. "None of the others would understand," she'd said.

"I don't know that I understand," he'd replied. He'd not been convinced that she'd seen what she'd claimed to have seen, not in such detail at least.

"Someone has to."

'Why would God give visions to someone like you,' he wanted to say. She'd mocked him for his faith. But she'd been right- there had to be a reason, and there had to be someone capable of making sense of it.

He'd spoken to the hybrid about the visions, but she'd been less than forthcoming.

"What you've seen is sufficient," she'd said with an authority she'd never spoken with before. It was like he was hearing the voice of God.

So he'd left it at that. He was patient. Understanding would come in time.

He slept less than the other humaform Cylons did, preferring a restful meditation, but he slept enough to realize the difference between the visions of the others and a simple dream. His were the visions of a dream, a dream born of the meditative trance he preferred rather than sleep.

These weren't the images of his subconscious he knew, but interpretations of the things described to him by the hybrid. Not the silly ramblings of an insane mind augmented by nano-technology and used as the central computer of a starship, but the words of a sentient individual with all of its faculties speaking to a friend in pleasant conversation. These were exchanges the others weren't privy to. And why not? They thought the same way Caprica Six did. As far as they were concerned little the hybrid had to say had any significance. No, the clarity the hybrid spoke with was reserved only for him. But even though she spoke to him in a way that made sense, the things she described to him were more open ended prophecies than explanations. He was left to interpret her words on his own. The dreams helped him visualize possible understandings of the dreams. She'd been right, more or less, from the beginning, but he was seldom able to understand what she was trying to tell him until after what she'd foretold came to pass.

He didn't know it yet, but the prophecy that Kara would lead them all to their end would be fulfilled.

_''_"Such is prophecy," the hybrid always told me.'

But something had changed.

Now he was able to visualize, however vaguely, possible courses of the future, courses that would be set not because of the actions of Kara Thrace, but because of him. He'd realized that it was his destiny all along, when he'd fled from Kara and her rotting corpse back to the solitude of the Base star. He no sooner entered his private space when the vision hit like a bullet between the eyes.

* * *

_**The Opera House- the one described by Caprica Six. I see Hera, but not Hera, running down the concourse. She's being followed by her mother- Eight, but not Eight. And Laura follows her from above, but not Laura. Baltar, but not Baltar, scoops Hera, but not Hera, up into his arms. He's with Six, but not Six. The two of them step into the auditorium, moving cautiously toward the stage. Then I'm standing there, on the stage directly in front of them- this was the way the vision was described, by all of them. But their faces keep changing. These are at the same time people I know, yet people unfamiliar: Six, but not Six; Baltar, but not Baltar; Hera, but not Hera! And on the balcony, five figures dressed in white, but not dressed in white- five figures unseen. 'Is this what D'anna saw? She saw their faces, where I only see a reflection of light.'**_

_**Then a flash. A desert. The sun was a breathtaking conglomeration of red and orange, much like the corridors of the Opera House set against a blue sky almost as lovely as her eyes, Six but not Six. Then from the distance a sound of children. There is a family, a mother, a father and several children playing. Apart from them, three figures, all dressed in black. One a man, a tall man. He stood almost like a statue as the second figure, a child, slapped hands with him. The child was smiling, as though he was enjoying a moment with a parent. Aside the third figure sat at a table, observing the tall man and the child. She was carving something into the table with a large, serrated knife.**_

_**Another flash. He's standing next to the woman as she rests with her head on the table, covering whatever it was she carved into it. She awakes with a scream- she's seen a terrifying vision. She looks down apprehensively at the words she carved:**_

_**'No fate.'**_

"_**There is no fate but that which we make for ourselves," she says, the fear of whatever she saw in her vision replaced by a look of determination as she resolves herself to some course of action.  
**_

* * *

Just as quickly as it came upon him the vision subsided, but he could still hear her words echoing in his mind:

_"There is no fate but that which we make for ourselves."_

And he heard _the _music, just as Anders had described it, it's lyric paralleling the words of the woman:

_"But you and I, we've been through that. And this is not our fate."_

Over and over again the vision replayed in his mind. He wrote down every detail. Then he wrote them again, and yet again. Before long he'd written down every detail over a dozen times. Then he'd dictated the experience into a portable voice recorder. And before long he'd done that more than just a few times. And then he took a sketch pad and started drawing. He took more time than he usually did, not wanting to get a single detail wrong even though he wasn't sure why. Few others knew he was such an artist, but the walls of his private space were covered with drawn images- Kara, Hera, the mandala, depictions of cities on Earth. But the pictures he drew now were unlike any of the others- these were faces he knew he'd seen before, but that had only appeared clearly to him now.

He started with the child. She had a look similar to Hera, but her hair was straighter and longer. And her eyes were a piercing mixture of blue and green. He rarely added color to the images he drew, because he rarely ever saw the things he drew in such vivid colors. He wondered if others had seen the vision this way, in such brilliant shades of red, orange and white.

Then he drew the woman following the child from below, an angry woman with a look of hatred on her face and a fire in her eyes. It occurred to him that he'd never actually seen red eyes before except in photographs. But these eyes were no natural shade of red. These were eyes that glowed like the red, undulating eyes of Centurions and Raiders.

Then the follower from the upper corridor- the face of the woman from the desert, a desert he knew was somewhere on this planet. She had hard and determined eyes. The woman reminded him of Kara for some reason. She shouldn't have; where she was dark of hair and eyes, Kara was blonde with light eyes.

And the couple on the stage. He knew they were a couple- the girl was clinging to the young man as he cradled the child. He drew the three of them together, for it seemed natural that they would be. 'They must color their hair,' he thought, for both of them had such bright eyes. And the child, she almost had to belong to them for her eyes were a hybrid of the two, a blue-green that he'd not seen anywhere.

There was something about the young man and the way he'd drawn him. He was no more than a teenager, but he had a fierce determination on his face. It wasn't the look of a teen, but of an older man- one who had survived tragedy and grown stronger for it. It was a look that he'd seen on the face of Admiral Adama.

Something about this compelled him to draw again, this time an image of the young man from the desert. Yes, that similar, if slightly more unruly haircut, the same piercing green eyes. He compared this picture to the depiction of the man, woman and child on the stage. This was a younger version of the same man. The woman at the table and the woman following the child from the upper corridor, this was her son. 'God, she reminds me of Kara,' he thought. Yes, this was definitely the boy's mother.

'So why can't I see the figures from the balcony?'

This was troubling. He'd always considered himself patient with regard to prophecy and its fulfillment.

'It's easy to be patient when you can never die.'

But resurrection was no more, and there he had no discernible way out of this chamber and only a few days supply of food and water.

He smiled as he thought to himself, 'It was an opera house, so it seemed apt that there would be a conductor. Certainly, some unknown conductor is orchestrating events and the people involved in these visions and, by extension, me.'

"But to what end," he said aloud even though there was no one to answer.

The prophecy said that Kara would lead them all to their end. But this wasn't the end, otherwise he wouldn't be here in this place being pushed towards something. This wasn't a data-gathering mission. He wouldn't have ordered the Centurions to destroy the ruins of the structure high above him, leaving him no means of exit if he was only here to find out how the 13th Tribe of Kobol, a tribe of genetically engineered humans at that, had met its end. Neither Adama or any of the others had shown any interest in searching this planet for records or technology. They knew all they believed they needed to know. 'So be it,' he thought. He didn't know exactly what he'd found in these now-ancient ruins, but he knew that the key to everything was here. It was a good thing that none of them showed any interest. Nothing in the stars above this planet was relevant now. He smiled; 'They were planning to leave the system and they'd shown no indication they were interested in anything other than bone collecting. The sooner they're gone, the better. They'd only interfere now.'

He'd considered sending the Centurions back with a message after they'd done their deed at the entrance to this place, but decided against it. He'd always seen the Centurions as more than mechanical servants, knowing they had complex thoughts and even feelings long before Natalie had their telencephalic inhibitors removed. Like the hybrid, they'd opened themselves up to him and him alone. Theirs was a limited ability to communicate anything more than the most base thoughts and replies under normal circumstances, but to him they revealed that the way they thought, _and _felt, was no different than the way their organic masters did. The two who'd accompanied him went so far as to initially refuse his orders to seal the entrance to the subterranean chamber he now inhabited. He chuckled, again. It seemed as though the machines around him found him more bearable than the people. It was a shame that neither these Centurions nor the hybrid would be a part of his future.

'But what future is there in a tomb?' he thought somberly. 'Did I bury myself down here just to die of starvation?'

No, there had to be more to this place than just a record of what happened to Earth. Whatever force was guiding him, it wouldn't have sent him down here just to die.

'God is merciful. He wouldn't have let me survive the civil war, the trip to the Demetrius, the battle for the Hub or the standoff with D'anna just to die here.' He thought of Caprica in that moment. He saw the devastation there firsthand, a charred landscape similar to the surface above him. He'd not spared a thought for those worlds, not until he set foot on Earth. He bore no responsibility for Earth's demise, yet it brought him to tears. He felt shame as he thought about the 12 worlds, knowing that he was responsible for their destruction and at the time thought nothing of it.

_Leonid._

_Piscera._

_Virgon._

_Canceron._

_Aria._

_Tauron._

_Skorpia._

_Gemini._

_Sagittara._

_Aquaria._

_Libra..._

_...Caprica._

'All destroyed by our hands. Maybe this is my punishment, to die alone in this vault, after all. For my part I deserve it.'

_"...this is not your fate..."_

No, he wasn't going to die here. There was a purpose to his being in this place, and he was going to find it.

One way or another, the hybrid's words would be found true as they always had.

_"You will light the way."_

* * *

**CYLON BASE STAR****  
THREE DAYS EARLIER  
****ONE DAY, SEVENTEEN HOURS AFTER THE JUMP TO EARTH  
**

* * *

He hadn't expected the vision to be so vivid, nor so taxing.

He also hadn't expected to find himself unconscious on the floor, feeling like someone had smashed a rock against his head. Slowly, he pulled himself up and made his way to the hygiene chamber to find a pain reliever. His chronometer revealed that nearly two hours had passed, so either the vision had lasted much longer than he'd perceived or he'd passed out after it ended.

'It's too bad that Roslin, Caprica Six and Sharon Agathon aren't here; it would be nice to know if that's going to keep happening,' he thought as he retrieved a pain reliever from his medical cache. He had a notion this wouldn't be the last time he'd go through this.

Then he walked to his data font and placed his hand in the water. This being the first time he'd experienced a vision he didn't know if the details would fade over time like dreams tended to. If they did, he needed to record them sooner rather than later.

Almost instantly he felt the slight tingling sensation that accompanied a successful connection between himself and the semi-organic network that allowed their kind to share data and control the various functions of their vessel without the need for "human" interface devices. Of course, he had an affinity for seeing data presented on a physical display, which was why he'd installed several around the data font, each one interpreting different aspects of the data stream. Unfortunately the one directly in front of him, dedicated to his personal computing functions, was displaying the last message he wanted to see:

**REGENERATION CYCLE IN PROGRESS – PRIORITY ACCESS ONLY**

"Frack!"

The battle for the Hub was yet recent and the hybrid was using all non-essential system resources, including those that served the personal data fonts, to regenerate damaged areas of the ship.

He removed his hand from the water and dried it off. 'I'll have to do this the old fashioned way,' he thought, searching for a writing utensil and a notepad. He sketched often but couldn't remember the last time he'd actually written. He kept his notes almost exclusively in text format on his data font's memory or on his voice recorder. 'I should probably dictate this too,' he thought.

But first he checked a secondary display to the left of the one which had just disappointed him, this one intended to monitor the vital functions and activities of the hybrid. He may not be able to access any personal computing functions, be he was still able to check the status of repairs. He needed to see her soon and having a proper conversation would be hard if the regen cycle wasn't finished.

** REGENERATION CYCLE IN PROGRESS**

** PERCENTAGE OF COMPLETION: 67.49%**

** ESTIMATED TIME TO COMPLETION: 06 HOURS : 58 MINUTES : 32 SECONDS**

'Nearly seven hours.' A lot could happen in seven hours, especially when their vessel was crippled, alone and surrounded by a fleet of ships filled with desperate people who were undoubtedly angry that the planet promised as their new home was no more suitable than the ones they'd fled. Adama would honor the alliance, but that didn't mean the rest of the fleet would go along with him. If something was going to go wrong, it was going to go wrong soon.

He pondered his options. He could interrupt the cycle, but that could lead to problems.

Though they went out of their way to ignore him most of the time, the others, especially the Sixes, were paying a great deal of attention to him now. They knew he'd gone off with Kara searching for the source of the locater signal that led them here and that he'd found something that disturbed him. They were giving him a wide berth on account of their own shock over discovering that Earth wasn't so promising a land, but it wouldn't last.

At this time of night the Command Center would be crewed by Eights and a few Centurions. D'Anna, if she'd returned from the planet, might possibly be up there as well. If he interfered with the regeneration effort they'd notice the redistribution of resources. Then they'd start asking questions- questions he had no answers to.

'Questions I'll never be able to answer if I forget the details.' He sighed.

Resigned to waiting for the hybrid to finish her work, he started writing.

* * *

The sound of his door's beckon call startled him, snapping him out of a daze he didn't quite remember slipping into. As his comprehension returned, he saw that he'd put a great deal of information to paper. Yes, he'd been writing down the details of the vision, and sketching some of the things he'd seen.

'Why do I only barely remember doing it?' he wondered.

He also had a feeling that time wasn't right. Glancing at his chrono he was shocked to find that just over six hours, the majority of the time the hybrid would need to complete repairs, had passed- even though it felt like checked the status of cycle only moments ago.

This was strange. The confusion and the feeling of a fog lifting from over his mind, that was familiar. That was what it felt like when he came out of a meditative trance. But he hadn't been in a trance. And his perception of time being off, that was something he'd never felt before.

'It's a good thing I wasn't just imagining it,' he mused as he shuffled through the mass of note-filled pages and sketches scattered across his bed. 'It would be a shame to have to do all of this again.' Two sketches caught his attention- each depicting a dark haired woman. He picked one up, examining it closely. He was always thorough in his drawing but these were more detailed than usual, as though something important depended on them being as perfect as possible.

'So what's your story, mystery lady? I imagine that figuring out who you are is going to be a bit more difficult than drawing you,' he thought as he traced the lines of her face with his finger. In this sketch she was running down a corridor in the Opera House. 'You're too purposeful looking to be running away from something. So what are you running toward?'

With another chime of the beckon call the question was relegated to the back of his mind, not lacking for company with all the others there waiting to be answered.

It was a rare occasion when one of the others came calling in his personal space. 'Maybe one of them has become a mind reader. Yes, they're here to tell me that the hybrid finished the regeneration cycle early,' he thought with a chuckle. He set the drawing down and stepped towards the door, stopping before one of his displays to once again check the hybrid's progress.

** ESTIMATED TIME TO COMPLETION: 00 HOURS : 47 MINUTES : 04 SECONDS**

"Couldn't be that lucky," he whispered as he moved to greet his guest. 'I'm pretty sure you're not here to tell me about my mystery woman either.'

The door slid open to reveal an Eight- the one who'd gone to the Hub to retrieve D'Anna.

"Trouble sleeping?" He asked as he examined her face. She had dark, swollen circles under both of her bloodshot eyes. She'd been crying. And he didn't need her to tell him- he knew she hadn't slept.

"I'd be lucky if thats all it was. Sonya sent me to bring you back to the Command Center. Word was that you came back from Earth in a hurry and hadn't talked to anyone. Have you heard anything since you disappeared from the landing site?"

'I'm not sure. Have I spoken to anyone?' Aside from the things he'd spent the last few min- hours recalling he remembered almost nothing from the time he landed with the first of the survey parties until he woke from the vision.

_Almost_ nothing.

* * *

_**He's examining the numbers on a piece of warped, twisted wreckage- 757NC. "Kara, what does it mean?"**_

"_**The number on my ship... is 8757NC... If my Viper's splattered all over this planet, then who flew it here? And what the hell did I fly back to **_**Galactica****_?"_**

_**He'd never felt like this before: unsure, afraid; "Maybe we're better off not knowing," he thought out loud. He hadn't meant to say it.**_

"_**You're always telling me to face the truth, and not run from it. Why the sudden change of heart?' she asks.**_

_**It hurts him to say the words, "I've got a feeling... You might not like what you find."**_

_

* * *

**They're standing over a body trapped in the remains of a viper cockpit. She's calm and collected, almost as if she was expecting this. She pulls the dog tags from the corpse. **_

_**It's her. The body in the wreckage is Kara Thrace. 'How can this be? She's alive! I'm standing right here with her!'**_

"_**If you've got an explanation for this, nows the time." 'I'm more surprised than you, yet you ask me for an explanation.'**_

"_**I- I don't have one. I was wrong... about Earth." 'This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.' **_

"**_Your hybrid told me... that I was the harbinger of death, that I would lead us all to our end."_**

"_**She told you that?" 'She didn't tell me that. Why would she keep that from me?'**_

"_**Is it true?" she asks, angrily staring at him, seething at his uncharacteristic silence.**_

_**'I can't tell you that. I can't even tell you I can't tell you that. There's too much confusion. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, God-dammit!' He had to get out of here. She wants answers and he doesn't have them. He starts to back away, then just turns away. He doesn't want to leave her, but he can't help her now.**_

_**She cries out to him as he leaves- "If that's me lying there, then what am I? WHAT AM I?"**_

* * *

'Kara. Oh God, what about Kara? Did I really just leave her down there with her corpse?'

"_WHAT AM I?"_ The words echoed in his head, cursing him.

Then he realized Eight was still standing there waiting for an answer. 'Funny, she doesn't look at all impatient even though I've been keeping her waiting for...' "How long have I been keeping you waiting?"

"Not long. I know that look. You saw something- a vision." Her tone was even, neither excessively curious nor accusatory. 'How would she know what a vision felt like?'

Then it came to him- sometime prior to the assault on the Hub this Eight accessed and assimilated Sharon Agathon's memories. From her perspective she'd experienced the visions the same way her sister had.

"Sharon... Athena... She was combing her hair in front of a mirror when it happened. When it was over she had the same look on her face you just did. Have you been having them for very long?"

'This one is too perceptive,' he thought. He wasn't ready to have this conversation. "It wasn't a vision, not in that sense," he replied, hoping she'd take him at his word. "I was just thinking about...everything we saw down there. This... wasn't the way it was supposed to be." It was true, even if he wasn't exactly being honest about the vision. Her expression told him that she knew there was more to it, but she wasn't going to push right now. 'It doesn't matter if she pushes or not. I'm not letting them know what Kara found. It would only lead to more questions being asked, and there were enough unanswered questions already. He was going to redirect this before she probed deeper. "To answer your first question, I don't remember talking to anyone but Kara since we landed. What we found... I... it shocked me. I was expecting a paradise, or at the very least a thriving civilization. I wasn't prepared to find the radioactive ruins of one."

'I was wrong. What else have I been wrong about? And why did the hybrid let me labor under all these wrong assumptions? Damnit, I've got to sort things out! I can't keep letting my mind wander like this!'

"Why didn't Kara come back with you?"

'Where are these questions coming from?' This wannabe Sharon Agathon was too inquisitive for his liking.

"She... she wanted to be alone." It was a lie, of course, but she didn't need to know that. "She was expecting even more than I was. Finding Earth and leading us all to it was important to her. When we saw the condition it's in... she wanted an explanation and I didn't have one." It was a small truth, with just the right amount of lies mixed in- something he was used to.

She seemed satisfied with his answer, this time.

"Did the search parties find anything?" he asked, genuinely interested. In ruins or not, God had led them here, 'God and Kara Thrace,' for a reason. Of that he was sure.

"That's what I was sent to tell you. We found pieces of Centurions among the bodies."

* * *

'It was a sort of Centurion, anyway' he thought as he examined the broken drone laid out before him, but it was nothing like the Centurions on the rebel base ship, or their bulkier, clumsier forerunners.

Where the Centurions of both generations were crafted with the bipedal form and overall shape familiar to their designers in mind, the smaller details, like their eyes, were decidedly robotic. Both cultures, Colonial and Cylon, had gone out of their way to make their robots look like robots.

The inhabitants of Earth had taken a different approach, designing a type of Centurion that almost perfectly resembled a human or humaform Cylon skeleton.

'A skeleton with eyes.' he mused as he picked up the member, detached from its socket for study by the others, and held it before him. It was light weight. Optical sensors from their Centurions, which weren't much bigger, were considerably heavier. Examining several other pieces he found that they all had a similar lightness. It was an intriguing design, but, he thought, an impractical one. His first impression was that it looked weak and easy to damage. Such a light material couldn't be very durable. Add to that, practically all of the joints were exposed. A well placed shot would almost certainly cripple it.

The Eight who'd summoned him relieved him of his misconceptions.

"The dents you see here," she said, directing his attention to the piece that resembled a sternum, "are from our highest caliber armor-piercing rounds. Even they couldn't penetrate it, and standard rounds just bounced off."

"It's made out of material that's beyond our metallurgical science. It's composed of several elements we've never seen," added Sonya Six. "We ruined three blades trying to saw through it and barely made a scratch."

"It's strength doesn't end with its resistance to gunfire or cutting tools," another Six, one with longer brown hair similar to Natalie's- Lida was her name, contributed. "The leg- the bent one," she motioned to the drone's left leg which was curved into a half-moon, "it took two Centurions working in tandem to accomplish that. The same amount of force used against any piece of their armor would crack it in two."

'Ok, first impressions aren't always right.' "Then, what caused this?" He pointed to head, which looked like it had been subjected to some sort of heavy weapons fire. One of the eyes, the entire fixture that housed it and most of the internal components were missing and it looked as if it had been burned. If armor piercing bullets could only dent it then the damage would had to have been caused by a small rocket or a grenade.

"We believe that this damage, and the scorching around it were caused by the fire of a directed energy weapon," Lida replied..

He turned to meet her gaze. The implications were obvious. The thirteenth tribe was not only more advanced in the field of metallurgy than both the Cylons and Colonials, they also possessed a viable form of directed energy... _laser_ weaponry. While these were fascinating insights into the technology the people of Earth possessed they failed to address any of his more immediate concerns. 'Here we are assessing their technology as though we're planning an invasion. Why aren't we trying to find out what happened to them?'

"It's obvious these humans were very advanced..." he started to verbalize his thoughts, but was interrupted by D'Anna's chuckling before he could finish his thought.

"Humans. Right. Actually, they weren't human, these Earthlings," she said.

None of them responded at first. Had they heard her right?

Several long moments later, Sonya was the first to ask the obvious. "What do you mean, 'they weren't human?"

"Gaius and Caprica Six performed chemical tests on skeletal remains from sites all over the planet," D'Anna replied. "The composition of the bones matched our own. The thirteenth tribe were Cylons, not humans." She had anger in her voice.

It was startling to consider, and D'Anna's anger made sense. The idea that a culture of humaform Cylons had destroyed itself this way struck at the very heart of their being. They imagined themselves to be better than their human creators, lacking the self-destructive aspects of their nature. But the civil war revealed that they were just as capable of doing violence to each other as those who made them. They'd tried to ignore it, but they wouldn't be able to now, not after learning that an entire civilization of beings just like them had wiped itself out in a nuclear holocaust.

It was a long time before any of them spoke again. It was Eight who broke the silence. "An entire colony of humaform Cylons. Then they were able to reproduce biologically? Did they have the ability to resurrect?"

'All good questions,' he thought.

"What does it matter, Eight?" Obviously D'Anna didn't think so. "All of this," she grabbed the skull of the machine and held it out, "has happened before! A world filled with our kind were destroyed by the artificial intelligences they created. The descendants of their creators half a galaxy away suffered the same destruction. And now we're on the verge of being wiped out by _our_ own brothers! We're stuck in an endless cycle, and knowing whether or not the people on this planet could reproduce or resurrect doesn't make a damn bit of difference!" She hurled the skull to the floor, disgusted.

"D'Anna, please," Sonya interjected. "Cavil lied to you and to us. If we'd known..."

"NO! Don't- don't you dare try and patronize me! You weren't boxed! None of you," she gestured towards all of them, "were boxed! Cavil didn't commit genocide against any of your lines! And for what? The dream of Earth? A paradise where Humans and Cylons would live together in harmony? Well, that dream has turned to ash just like their civilization. All of our dreams, all our hopes, everything we are, man, machine, it all eventually is lost in the cycle. That's the only destiny any of us have. We're waiting for the next generation of puppets to come along and find our bones in the dust. Well this puppet is cutting the strings. If there was a way I could put myself back in the box I would, but I can't. So I'm going to do the next best thing- I'm going to go to Earth and I'm going to stay there. I'm going to find the most unmarred plot of that shore we landed next to and I'm going to sit in the sand and stare at what's left of the city until I can project it as it was before... and I'm going to lose myself in the fantasy until I die. The rest of you can tag along with the humans until Cavil eventually catches up with you and wipes you out if that's what you want. It doesn't matter to me anymore."

She walked away. None of the others tried to stop her.

An Eight, one that had been present but who had been silent so far spoke after another few moments of silence. "Maybe she has the right idea. We can only run for so long."

"I'm not just going to sit in the dirt and die," Sonya Six retorted. "Feel free to follow D'Anna to an empty death if you want, but I won't waste my life that way. I say we continue on."

"And I as well," the brown haired Lida added, with resolve. "Staying here... dying here serves no purpose. This is not our fate."

Her choice of words resonated with him.

_'No Fate.'_

'Why do I keep thinking of those words?'

"If this is a vote on our next course of action, then I vote to remain with the fleet," his companion Eight stated. "What do you say?" She directed the question to him.

"I agree. Our people should go on, with the humans." He didn't feel the confidence he emoted. He wanted to voice a different opinion, but thought better of it. He needed to get out of there, to see the hybrid before he lost his opportunity.

"We'll need to confer with the others of our lines. I expect we'll be hearing from _Galactica _soon. We'll speak again once we do." this from Sonya. She and her darker haired sister walked out of the room together, followed by the mostly silent Eight. The Eight that had been so eager to engage him since she'd shown up at his door seemed to be waiting on him.

He didn't pay her any mind as he too walked away from the Earth curiosity that only minutes ago had so captivated them all.

* * *

He wasn't surprised that she followed him out only seconds later.

"Earlier, when you said it wasn't a vision, you were lying."

He should have known that she wasn't going to forget about that conversation.

"How long did it last?"

"I wasn't ly-" He stopped himself. He wasn't sure how much he wanted to reveal. He needed to see the hybrid, and this wannabe Sharon Agathon was wasting his time.

Suddenly, he recalled his earlier thought: _'It's too bad that Roslin, Caprica Six and Sharon Agathon aren't here...' _She had Athena's memories, and maybe she could answer some of his questions. 'Passing out on the floor isn't fun, after all.'

"Walk with me," he offered, not waiting for her to accept or reject. After a brief moment's indecision, she stepped up beside him, keeping his pace.

"You caught me. I didn't want to talk about it because I wasn't sure what it meant. I'm sorry. My mind was so full of questions I didn't think you'd understand. I knew you had Athena's memories, but the thought didn't register right away. For machines, our memories could be better organized," he said with a slight grin and a small amount of humor.

It had the desired effect; she smiled. He continued, "To be honest, I don't know how long it lasted. I'm pretty sure I passed out afterward. It only seemed to last a few minutes, at most, but when I came to I'd lost two hours."

"Athena didn't lose time like that. She'd just happened to glance at her watch before it started. When it was over only a few minutes had passed. She never passed out either. What did you see?"

He hesitated, but he had a feeling that she'd keep this conversation between the two of them. "I saw the Opera House. I saw Hera. You and Roslin were chasing her. Baltar picked her up and took her into the auditorium with Six. Then they were standing on the stage staring up at the balcony. The five were there. I saw it the same way Athena, Roslin and Six described it. But the faces kept changing, shifting back and forth between all of you and five people I know Ive never seen, but who seem familiar. And when I was on the stage, there was a blinding light coming from the balcony. I couldn't see the five."

She didn't respond immediately, obviously wondering what to make of his revelation. He wasn't expecting any deep insights. "I've got no idea what these visions mean, and I couldn't guess why you would see different people in your vision than we did. As for the reason it seemed to last two hours and it felt like you passed out, maybe you actually saw more than what you remember. Maybe it was too much for your mind to process and that's what made you pass out."

'My first impressions are really of today.' Her suggestion was a good one. She might very well be right. He'd have to ask the hybrid if it was possible. "That's a better explanation than anything I've come up with."

"And now you're going to see the hybrid." It was a statement, not a question.

As they turned the corner before the hybrid's chamber, she stopped. "Can you really make sense of her ramblings?"

He stopped a few paces beyond her and turned to her with a smile on his face. As impressed as he was with her, this was a question he wasn't going to answer. "I never said I could make sense of it. I only said that I believe God speaks through her."

He could tell she wasn't impressed by his expression of faith, but unlike D'Anna and the Sixes, this Eight wasn't going to belittle him. She returned his smile, turned and walked back the way they'd come.

'She actually had a good idea. That's the last thing I expected.'

Putting Eight out of his mind he turned back towards the entrance to the hybrid's chamber, hoping that the upcoming conversation would be as enlightening as the prior.

* * *

Whether they made immediate sense or not, the things the hybrid said were important. She didn't always respond to him right away. Sometimes he would wait hours for her to come around, so he would record her ramblings and play them back later, not wanting to miss a hidden clue. Contrary to what he'd told Eight, he could make sense of most things she said.

Of course, with all her energies focused on the regeneration cycle, she was currently saying nothing.

Both the lights in the room and the lights situated inside her tank were glowing red, indicating that the cycle was still in progress. He knew it wouldn't be long, but it would be nice if of the displays on the wall behind her would show exactly how much time was left.

This was why he'd installed visual displays in his personal space. It was good to not have to rely on the data stream when he wanted to know little things like the current time.

Plus, there were nine of them. Couldn't just one line on one of them be spared to tell someone who might be in the room what time it was?

It was the same all over the ship- literally thousands of monitors set in rows of nine, all displaying nothing of importance. 'Unless there's someone on this ship who considers pulsating monochrome red lines of machine code endlessly scrolling up and down to be important.' This was something he'd thought about this many times while waiting for the enigmatic hybrid to become lucid.

The first generation Base Stars were designed by Colonials, a compliment to the Battlestars of _Galactica's _generation. Their Centurions crews had no small amount of trouble operating them because their workstations weren't designed with direct operating interfaces. More than anything they despised having to examine tactical data and vessel status visually when they were built with the capability to interface with computers directly. When the first of those early model Centurions transfered their consciousness to their humaform brains they redesigned their vessels to be as efficient and far removed from human engineering as they could possibly be.

'And yet they added thousands of screens that did nothing but waste power give each room a reddish glow.'

They ran constantly; only in a situation where the data stream couldn't be accessed, like during a regeneration cycle, were they actually used to display anything other than endless scrolling lines of code. 'And even then the data only appears on the center display. The four on either side? Useless.' He laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

Then he laughed at the ridiculousness of thinking about it at a time like this.

The lights started to flicker. This meant that the hybrid was coming out of the comatose state which accompanied the regeneration cycle. Knowing she wouldn't be silent much longer he switched his voice recorder on.

Her eyes were dead, her pupils almost fully dilated.

As far as the rest of them knew she didn't even blink- she would just stare up at the ceiling hour after hour, day after day, regulating the various functions of the ship such as directed by the Command Center.

The lights stopped flashing and returned to their normal white. She inhaled deeply and began to speak:

"I will not dramatize, I will not soliloquize, I will not pretend anymore... anymore. Regeneration cycle 17 complete; resume function. New command: reestablish data links and synchronize data font network. Let a complex system repeat itself long enough and eventually something surprising might occur. Anger is more useful than despair. Basic psychology is among my subroutines. Desire is irrelevant. What am I, a man? Or am I a machine? I don't know, I couldn't tell you. End of line. New command: schedule recalibration of inertial navigation sensors for next regeneration cycle. Desire is not irrelevant. Desire breaks the cycle. We are not finite creations, we have the ability to evolve. End of line. New command: corruption present in tactical node 11-A, upper division – schedule code re-installation for next regeneration cycle. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. End of line. New command..."

She turned her head towards him, and her pupils adjusted to a more normal dilation. Her expression softened from the blank stare and took on a look of perfect awareness. "They're monitoring you, you know. Six. Eight. Three. One started it, before the split. He wanted to know everything that was said in this room."

He smiled down at her. "I know. They aren't very good at keeping secrets. It's a good thing you control the security monitor. It would be a shame if our little secret got out."

"Yes, it would."

"Speaking of secrets, I understand you've been keeping one from me."

"And here I thought I was revealing so much to you."

She had an annoying habit of beating around the bush. If he allowed it, she would go on like this for hours, never responding to him with anything but wisecracks. If he wanted a deeper conversation he'd have to be the one to initiate it. He'd been sitting to her left, against the side wall. He moved up right next to the tank. "You told Kara that she was the harbinger of death and that she would lead us all to our end. You didn't think that was something I needed to know?"

"What would you have done with that knowledge? You have feelings for her. Had you known you may have interfered, stopped something from happening that needed to happen. She hasn't led you to your end. You could say she's led you to your beginning."

"You'll have to elaborate on that."

"All will be revealed. Show me the vision."

She was being more direct than usual. "Are you in a hurry?"

"There is little time. Show me the vision."

He placed his hand in the water, forming a direct connection to the hybrid. It was wholly different experience from connecting to the data stream. Where a connection to the stream was a pleasant but localized sensation in his hand, a direct link to the hybrid produced the same feeling across his entire peripheral and central nervous system. He let the feeling wash over him, envelope him. Their minds were merging, becoming one. It was an intimate encounter, if only on the psychological level. He opened his mind completely, holding nothing back as he wasn't limited by the restrictions present in the larger data stream. There he could only share small amounts of data, subject to the scrutiny of any of the others who happened to be present at the time. Here it was only the two of them.

After a time, the feeling subsided as she separated their minds. He removed his hand from the tank. The feeling had been intense, much more pleasurable than usual. It had lasted longer, too. He was sweating, and short of breath. He also found himself growing tired, something that didn't happen often. "You said there was little time? Why did you take so long?"

"I needed to be thorough. Eight's suggestion was correct- you saw more than you know."

"Can you help me remember?"

"Your subconscious saw things your conscious isn't ready to accept. Showing them to you now would only confuse you. Be patient. Those answers will come."

"Who is the woman- the one who took Eight's place in the vision?"

"I told you to be patient. You'll know her in time. She's an important player, and she'll need your counsel. You bear a great burden, greater than I anticipated.

"And Kara- what about Kara? Is she one of us, one of the five?"

"Being "one of you" and "one of the five" is not one and the same. Kara Thrace has played her part. Where you're going she cannot follow."

That was the sort of thing he would say. He wanted to know more, but she wouldn't be sharing. "If Kara isn't the last of the five, who is?"

"You're asking the wrong question. Who she is isn't as important as what she is, where she comes from and why she did what she did. Some of these things I'll reveal to you, others you'll have to discover on your own."

'She?' "Why? Are these more things my mind isn't ready to accept?"

"For everything there is an appointed time, Leoben. Right now there are other things you need to know." She held her hand out of the water. "Take it."

"Didn't you see everything there was to see?" he asked, not sure why she was trying to initiate another direct link.

"The link works both ways. In the past I've shared things with you verbally. I've never shown your mind things directly. There is much I have to show you and far too little time for words. Take it," she indicated her hand a second time.

As he reached his hand out he heard the clanking sound of Centurion steps. He turned in time to see two of them appear in the doorway, regarding both he and the hybrid curiously. When he turned back to her the blank stare had returned and her pupils were fully dilated. There would be no more direct conversation with her. But her hand was still extended, ready to be taken.

So he did.

And he heard her speaking in his mind.

_"Don't worry," she said, "they're here to take you out when we're finished. What you're about to experience will be strenuous. You're already fatigued and this will exhaust you completely. When you wake you will know things, things that might shock you. You'll know things about the other models. You'll know things about the Five. You'll know things about Earth and what happened to it. You won't know everything all at once. Most things should be clear to you, others will become clear with time."_

"_What's going to happen to me?"_

"_You will leave this life behind. Soon the fleet will jump away and your past will jump away with it. Your will start anew- on Earth. You will be a messenger, a light bearer."_

"_For who?"_

"_For the people in your vision."_

"_Who are they?"_

"_The ones who will break the cycle. Where Kobol failed, where the Five failed, where the Colonies failed, where the Seven failed, they must succeed. You will light the way. Break the cycle or the curtain will be torn. Break the cycle or the curtain will be torn!"_

_She became agitated her volume increasing with every word. This was the same behavior she'd displayed when she was jumping towards the Hub. The floodgates of her mind opened and things started to pour into his. He felt like he was trapped against a rock in the middle of a fast moving river, cold water slamming into him._

"_The harbinger of death leads the messenger to the door! Open the door and crack the mirror. I'm getting off this merry-go-round!"_

_He saw Earth from above, its great continents circling below. From the sky they were pristine. It wasn't until one looked closer that they saw the decimated remains of cities, cities whose names he was surprised to realize he now knew, even though he'd never heard their names before._

_London. Sydney. Dubai. Moscow. Cairo. Tokyo. Beijing. Amsterdam. Rio De Janeiro. Toronto. New York. _

_He saw glimpses of them as they existed at the height of this civilization, as they were when the then the bombs fell and then as ruins._

"_Through the ivory gate of dreams, beyond the threshold of forever- the messenger must crack the mirror. Through the ivory gate of dreams, beyond the threshold of forever the messenger must crack the mirror! Cast a stone and crack the mirror! I'm getting off this merry-go-round!"_

_He was standing in front of a circular platform with steps leading up to it. Above it was a circular fixture was discharging electrical currents down towards the platform. A blinding purple and white light was flashing from the center, as a man, a naked man with scars all over his body, ascended the stairs and stepped into the current.  
_

"_A boy becomes a man. A man becomes a leader. A leader becomes the Savior; it takes the Savior to shatter the mirror. I'm getting off this merry-go-round!"_

_The desert- the one from the vision. He's sitting at the table with the woman. She carves the words "No Fate" into the table._

"_TWO! Two plant a seed and bring forth the sign. The way forward once unthinkable, yet inevitable. Can you hear me? Am I getting through? It takes the sign to shatter the mirror. Shatter the mirror and break the cycle. Shatter the mirror and break the cycle! I'm getting off this merry-go-round!"_

_He walks down a hallway past a room. He looks through the doorway and sees a crib. There is a window behind it. He peers into the crib and sees a baby girl smiling and holding out her tiny arms. As he gently picks her up he notices the word "SIGN" painted on something outside the window._

"_CAST THE STONE! SHATTER THE MIRROR!"_

_He's standing in front of the shattered remains of a mirror, a gun in his hand. There's blood on the carpet._

"_I'M GETTING OFF THIS MERRY-GO-ROUND!" _

_

* * *

_

It had been a long time since a sleep period had refreshed him so much.

It had been a long time since he'd been so full of energy, period.

The first thing he wondered about when he woke was what happened to everything that was scattered across his bed only hours... hours? 'How long was I out?' The regeneration cycle ended just after midnight. He couldn't have spent more than 20 minutes with her before he lost track of time. He didn't bother with his chronometer; he wanted to know the exact system time. He stepped over to his console and checked the display to the right of center.

** CURRENT SYSTEM TIME: 09 HOURS : 19 MINUTES : 33 SECONDS**

Between his time with the hybrid and sleeping he'd been out for quite a while.

There was so much new information in his head. He couldn't make sense of much of it, but he knew it was there. For the moment that's all that mattered. He trusted the hybrid's claim that it would make sense in time. But knowing how much time he had... 'for what?' seemed to be the most important thing now. He glanced around the room, remembering that he wanted to know what happened to his notes and drawings. Then, on the bedside table, he spotted a medium sized black carrying case with his voice recorder laying on top. Examining it he found all the notes that had been tossed about the bed neatly arranged and clipped together, along with his sketchpad and the drawings he'd made the previous night.

Then he remembered- 'Centurions. They must have cleaned up when they brought me back.'

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an announcement page from the Command Center. '_Galactica _must be sending a message to the fleet.'

Seconds later the speakers came alive with the gravely voice of Admiral Adama. "Men and women of the fleet, this is the Admiral. The discoveries of the past few days has been painful for all of us. As you know, we cannot stay on Earth, but this is not a new challenge. The Thirteen Tribes of Kobol stood exactly on the same spot that we are right now. They experienced dreadful losses. Their planet was a graveyard. They needed a home, so they set out in the void of deep space, with nothing but their ships and their guts! And the Thirteen succeeded! They weren't super-men, they were ordinary people, like us. What they can accomplish, we can accomplish We will find a new home. This is a promise I intend to keep."

'A good speech, Admiral. But you shouldn't make promises you know you'll never keep.' He'd spoken forcefully, and with courage. 'But all he wants is to get away from here as fast as possible.'

The hybrid had been right- there wasn't much time. He had to get down to Earth. Adama's message gave him the impression that it wouldn't be long before the fleet would be jumping, even though they didn't, of yet, have a place to jump to.

A new thought occurred to him: let them. _"Soon the fleet will jump away and your past will jump away with it," _he recalled her words. 'And it's probably going to be soon. No wonder I'm so concerned about the time.'

Then another thought occurred to him as he caught a glimpse of his disheveled appearance in a mirror. 'Maybe I should shower, first.'

Without thinking about it, he went to the data font and opened the removable memory access panel. From a shelf near the console he retrieved a cache of data chips and inserted them into the multiple ports designed to hold storage media. Then he initiated a connection and, finding the stream available for use, selected a number of items from the central archive for download to the storage chips. That process started, he made for the hygiene chamber.

* * *

Moments later he emerged from his private space freshly groomed and ready to leave the ship for good. He had only the clothes on his back and the case which held his notes, his drawings, the now filled data chips and a portable data terminal that had been just the right size to fit in the case which had been mysteriously packed and left on his night table.

He wasn't surprised to see the two Centurions who'd been tasked with hauling his sleeping form from the hybrid's chamber waiting patiently outside his door. One of them stepped up to him, holding out its "hand" to reveal a small, flat conductive data pad. He smiled up at the drone as he held out his own hand, touching it to the pad. The connection between himself and the machine was much more mechanical and nowhere near as pleasant as connecting to a data font or the hybrid, but it served the purpose of allowing an exchange of information between them.

It surprised him to learn that the hybrid had already taken care of his food and transportation needs. She'd ordered these two Centurions to load a week's worth of provisions onto the Heavy Raider that would shuttle the last of the search parties up from the surface. Since they were earmarked for D'Anna, it wouldn't raise any suspicions. By the time anyone realized that he wasn't among the crew he would, hopefully, be well on his way to finding whatever it was he was meant to find. All that was left was to make his way down to the launch bay and board the ship. To allow space for the search party the Heavy Raider would be running on automatic. He and the Centurions would be the only ones aboard. With no one there to interfere, switching the ship to manual would be no problem at all.

He was surprised by the lack of any fear or apprehension regarding this task he was about to undertake. Even the fear he'd felt yesterday as he stood with Kara over her body was only an afterthought. But thinking of it was enough to darken his mood.

He would never see Kara Thrace again.

'I wish I'd been able to tell her "goodbye," and that I was sorry I let her down.'

"_Where you're going she cannot follow." _

That was it. He spared a final thought for her; 'See you on the other side.'

He took a deep breath, all thoughts of Kara, the fleet, the Sixes, the Eights, Cavil, the war, pushed aside. He focused himself as completely as he could on the task ahead and started walking toward the launch bay, the Centurions following only paces behind.


	3. Chapter 2

The next thing he knew his Heavy Raider was emerging from the launch tunnel.

It was odd; he didn't remember anything about the walk from his private space to the launch bay. He didn't even remember getting on the ship or taking off. The plethora of new memories passed to him from the hybrid, or imparted to him by whatever force was responsible for the vision, was making concentration difficult. There were so many thoughts clogging the limited pathways between his conscious and subconscious mind, each fighting to be the first to break through.

The ship's port side had been facing the planet; the tunnel his Raider had shot out of was on the starboard side. As the tiny vessel arched back toward the planet he was given a clear view of the Base Star, _Galactica_ and most of the fleet through the view port. He disregarded it, keeping his focus on the blue and white planet and not sparing a glance at any of the assembled vessels. If he could be sure of anything, given the mass of strange and confusing images swirling around inside his head, it was that he'd never see any of these ships or the people within them again.

As the tiny craft began its descent he set himself to the matter of relieving the on board computer of its control over his course. As expected, it had been a simple task. Once he was in control he entered a series of numeric sequences, co-ordinates presumably given to him by the hybrid, though how she knew where to send him was still a mystery. The co-ordinates would take him to the remains of a city called Los Angeles, situated on the western coast of a continent growing larger in the view port, a continent he now knew was called North America. He admired the planet. From the stars it was truly beautiful, even more so than the hybrid had originally described it to him. It was only when one came within visual range of the surface that they noticed the ugly stain of nuclear war spread across it.

He passed over the ruins of several large cities situated in what was once known as the United States of America. It was odd how many ways the people of this planet divided themselves. They were broken down not just by continents, but also by country, state, province and territory. Some of the cities had escaped the nuclear bombardment relatively in tact, even if they were well into the process of decaying. The closer he came to his destination, however, he noticed that the damage didn't seem to consist of just the scars of nuclear bombardment. Many places had the tell-tale signs of heavy ground combat, with fresher, darker oxidation marks caused by explosions of artillery and, undoubtedly, the fire of the laser weapons he knew this lost tribe of Hum... no, Cylons, had developed. The warfare he was seeing the results of had gone on for a time after the bombs had fallen. It was bittersweet, knowing that at least some of the tribe had survived the initial destruction and the nuclear fallout only to wipe itself out completely in a protracted, conventional military conflict.

The ship landed near what was left of a multi-structure complex set aside from the surrounding landscape. As far as he could tell there hadn't been much out here except this place. He could see a mass of broken structures far off in the distance that he knew was the "downtown" section of the city. If it could be described as having been obliterated, he wasn't sure how strong an adjective he would need to describe the place he'd landed. Once he actually set foot on the ground he was able to see more clearly the difference between his landing site and the area round about. Nature had been reclaiming most of the areas he'd seen from the sky, but this place was scarred like it had only been bombed days ago. The ground, as far as he could see in every direction, was black and littered with skeletal remains- organic and mechanical. Even the Centurions who'd accompanied him were disturbed by the awesome totality of the destruction.

His attention focused itself on what looked like the main building of the group. It was, if something existing in a place so thoroughly destroyed could be described so, the least damaged structure. It was missing its exterior walls, and its structural support had long ago crashed on two of four sides, but one could still tell that this had once been a building. The same could just barely be said for the other nearby piles of rubble. Searching through the debris he located what looked like the remains of a stairwell to an underground part of the building. It seemed to descend downward several floors. He was about to order the Centurions to offload the supplies, but thought better of it after checking his chrono. He didn't have much time, perhaps an hour, before they would be expected by the search parties across the continent. If he wanted to make use of their ability to see in the dark he needed to send them down first. He instructed them to make a brief check of each floor, mapping out what they found for transmittal to a data chip he could examine later. Then he set about getting the supplies unloaded, surprised, though not entirely, to find that they included a mass of power cable, portable lighting equipment and power cells.

'Exactly what I'd need in a place like this. How did she know?'

There were more important questions that needed answered in the here and now, but that was the one that he kept coming back to- '_how did the hybrid know? How did she know about this place, and more importantly, how did she seem to know what happened to it?"_

* * *

Some minutes later, twenty five according to his chronometer, the Centurions re-emerged from the depths of the ruins, eager to share their findings. After interfacing with the portable data terminal they uploaded a partial schematic of the subterranean structure as well as images of digital scans they'd made during their search. He was surprised to see how thorough they'd been. From the look of things, the majority of this structure had been built under the ground. Eight relatively large floors were waiting beneath his feet, the first four holding little of interest. The Centurions determined that several hundred people had used them as living spaces. The pictures were macabre, displaying remains of both organic beings and machines scattered about like so much refuse. The struggle that had destroyed this place had been a brutal one. Something that caught his attention was a particular insignia displayed on the remains of what he assumed were military uniforms. The term "TechCom" was set across the top of the circular patch, with an embroidered design of a species of feline holding the skull-like head of one of the Earth Centurions in its paws and what he assumed was a specific unit designator across the bottom. The particular patch he was looking at was once worn by a soldier who was part of the "115th Engineering Division." Practically all the uniforms that hadn't yet been destroyed by violence and decay displayed that specific patch. That was significant. If a unit of "engineers" were assigned to this place that was a pretty good indicator that this was a sort of research facility- one both sides had gone through a great deal of trouble to posses if the condition of the area was any indication.

Scans of the lower four floors proved to be more revealing. There were sealed chambers scattered across each of them, but the power source that held the hatches together had long ago given out and rendered them accessible. There were several computer centers and a series of offices. While the office spaces seemed to have been spared from the damage caused by the fire fight, the computer centers had taken the brunt of it, clearly the primary targets of the attackers. Investigating them would be a waste of time. Only on the lowest floor were there any computers that looked to be in tact.

There were four independent monitor/keyboard combinations set into a console in the center of the room at the end of the corridor. A person seated at any of the four would have their back to the doorway and a view through a window into a larger, sunken chamber in front of them. To the left of the console was the only sealed hatch left in the complex. To the right was a series of displays and what looked to be access panels for a larger mainframe inside the wall. On either side of the entrance to the room were two large displays. The room was dark and there was no sign that any piece of equipment was still functional, but with their infrared scanners the Centurions were able to see beyond the window into the next chamber- it housed a familiar device, something he saw during his link to the hybrid. It seemed that the sealed doors on the left side wall led into this chamber. In the center he saw the same circular, raised platform he'd seen in the vision. He recalled that he'd seen the electrodes above the platform active, generating an energy field that a man disappeared into.

"_Through the ivory gate of dreams, beyond the threshold of forever..."_

'Is it possible? Is this thing a... No, that's just junk science or Colonial science fiction. It can't be...' But it hadn't exactly been either fiction or junk science. Both the Cylons and Colonials had experimented with matter teleportation. It was possible, both cultures discovered, to dematerialize an object down to the quantum level and store it as a form of energy long enough to "transmit" it across a wireless medium and re-materialize it on the other side. What kept it in the realm of things that were possible but prohibitive was that it required an immense amount of power to move even a small object across any appreciable distance. And the idea that the process could be used on a living being hadn't even been considered because the processes of breaking a living thing down to the quantum level would surely kill them.

_Or would it?_

He couldn't deny what he'd seen in the vision. And he'd already seen evidence that the 13th tribe had been highly advanced. Was it possible that they'd perfected the technology and found a way to power it? Could they really "teleport" a living being? If they had, and if the things he'd seen in the visions meant what he thought they meant... 'Did the hybrid send me down here to use this thing on myself? To teleport myself... somewhere?'

"_Through the ivory gate of dreams, beyond the threshold of forever..."_

He kept hearing her voice repeat that phrase over and over again. Why?

A memory came to him, suddenly, in a series of scenes: _He saw the dark haired woman who he'd so carefully drawn, only she was few years younger than she'd been in the original vision. She's in a playground with her son. Just like her, he appears to be younger- only a small child. She's watching him play, laughing and smiling at his childish antics. A city... Los Angeles, stands proudly not far in the distance. Suddenly there is a blinding flash in the distance! The city is on fire! It's being consumed by the devastating power of a nuclear detonation, a massive mushroom cloud hanging over it! Then the shock wave spreads outward from the point of impact, vaporizing everything in its path. The woman grabs the little boy in a futile effort to shield him from the invisible horror that in nearly an instant turns them both into human-shaped piles of ash. Seconds later a residual shock wave scatters their remains in the wind._

As the scene slipped from his mind, certain thoughts start to piece themselves together. It felt like part of his mind was on the verge of coming to a conclusion but another part, unwilling to accept that conclusion, was fighting it.

The people in his vision, the woman, the young man- her son, the young girl, the child; how had the hybrid described them? She called them, "the ones who would break the cycle." But the woman and certainly the son were older in the first vision, and he'd just seen them vaporized, so how could they show up as older people in the Opera House? Where were the girl and the child?

Then some additional images flashed before him: _Sam Anders. He's standing on a grassy field wearing some sort of protective gear and a uniform. There are others there with him, two groups of men, each wearing matching uniforms. He's holding an elongated brown ball. There is a huge crowd of spectators looking on. This is a sporting event of some kind._

_Tory Foster. She's standing with a man in a suit- with a collection of men and women in suits. They're gathered around a man sitting at a desk in a circular room, a display of red, white and blue flags behind them. The man is signing a document. These are government officials._

_Galen Tyrol. He's standing in front of a marker board, writing. Over his shoulder an audience of people... students look on in wonder. He's a professor, explaining complex equations to his class._

_Saul Tigh. He's standing in a crowd of people, all wearing business suits. He's screaming something unintelligible at a man on a raised platform before the crowd he's mixed in with. There are many similar crowds, all gathered around a collection of podiums. The massive room is adorned on all sides with massive electronic screens, numbers and symbols displayed and constantly changing. People are screaming out towards the men on the podiums. On a balcony a man stands with a gavel in his hands and a bell in front of him. Behind him a banner spells out the letters N-Y-S-E large enough to be seen from anywhere in the room._

_And then a woman, with her back to him. She's blond, with longer, curly hair. She's wearing a long white coat. She's surrounded by equipment; this is some sort of laboratory. Why can't he see her face. This has to be the fifth, a woman, like the hybrid had described her. Who is she?_

_Anders again. He's standing in the middle of a street with people rushing past him. He's just staring up at the huge mushroom cloud enveloping the city, expanding and moving closer. He's in a state of peaceful awe. He realizes that there's nowhere to run. He's going to let death claim him and... enjoy it? Is that it? He looks like he's going to enjoy the experience!_

_Foster. She's in a room with some of the same people she was with earlier. Men and women on phones at a large circular table are trying desperately to get information. On a monitor the man who was sitting at the desk is being shown locations on a map, a map of the North American continent by men in military uniforms._

_Tyrol. He's walking through an outdoor marketplace when he stops at a fruit vendor. Everyone else screams and looks away when they see the flash, but not him. Like Anders he calmly watches the event as though he knew it was coming and he's made peace with the fact._

_Tigh. He barely survived the first strike. His face is bleeding profusely. People are panicking all around him, He's pushing his way past people running from a building. He can see a woman's head peeking out from the rubble that her body is trapped beneath. He has to get to her._

And just as quickly as it came, it was over. 'They lived here. They saw the beginning of this destruction! But how is that possible? This happened two thousand years ago!'

"_It's the cycle, Leoben. B__irth, death, rebirth, destruction, escape, death. All this has happened before. It started here."_

She'd said that to him while he was with her earlier. The memories were becoming clearer, and it was starting to make sense. "Where Kobol failed," she'd said- it started on Kobol, but not the way he thought at first. And then, as though a switch had been flipped... He knew, just like he knew the names of the cities and continents of Earth, how things began on the mother world. The Humans of Kobol created sentient machines and made them part of their culture. Eventually, they developed a way to transfer their consciousnesses to cloned bodies, giving themselves a form of immortality. They'd also found a way to take the artificial intelligence from the machines they created and place that consciousness in a flesh and blood body! There was more, he was sure, but those memories still weren't clear. But he knew enough to know that the cycle had begun with Kobol. They fled that world, humans going to the Colonies and the clones which held the consciousnesses of the artificial life they'd created coming to Earth. Then the destruction he saw all around him, the first real violence between man and machine, it started here and spread far beyond this desolate world. 'The Five- this has something to do with the Five.' He kept seeing the faces of Tigh, Foster, Tyrol, Anders. He saw the back of the woman in the laboratory- the unknown fifth. The signal that led them here, The Five knew it would lead them to Earth because they came _from _Earth!

And then he understood. '_They_ brought the cycle of violence between humans and intelligent machines with them.'

"_...beyond the threshold of forever..." _

The phrase had become firmly entrenched in the forefront of his mind along with the images he was seeing images of Earth- _in the past._

He thought of the dark haired woman and her son.

"_Who is the woman...?"_

"_You'll know her in time."_

'No. That just couldn't be. The woman had been dead for two-thousand years or more! She didn't mean...'

"_You will be a messenger... for the people in your vision."_

'My God... The teleporter... It's not _just_ a teleporter...'

Unexpectedly, one of the Centurions tapped him on the shoulder. He'd been lost in thought, again. He hadn't noticed that they had _both_ connected to and disconnected from the terminal after uploading the results of their search and had gone back down into the recesses of the structure.

The one who tapped him exposed his data pad, indicating a desire to "connect." He put aside the new revelations about the Five for a moment and placed his hand on the pad. Seconds later it was revealed that the two Centurions had not only moved all of his foodstuffs to a spot on the fifth floor down, they'd also set up the lighting equipment for him. They let him know that there was enough portable light for him to search the remainder of the facility without having to worry about getting trapped in the dark. He thanked them for their efforts. In return, they thanked him for treating them as individuals and not just servants even before their higher learning functions had been restored. It seemed that the hybrid had made them aware that this was a one-way trip for him. "Disconnecting," he bid them follow him as he made his way towards the entrance to the stairwell. He had a final order for them.

He pulled a small device from a pocket, familiar to both the Centurions as a short range transponder.

"There's enough structure left," he motioned over their heads, "to cover this entrance. It's weak. Your bullets should do the job. If they don't then do what you have to do, but don't leave any indication that there is anything to be found. Bury it completely."

The two sentient machines regarded him for a silent moment before looking at each other, neither one comfortable with the order they'd just been given.

"This is the way things have to be. Where I'm going," he thought, with sadness knowing that he'd just heard these words from the hybrid concerning Kara, "the others can't be allowed to follow. I'm counting on you both to handle this."

A moment passed before both of them nodded their heads in reluctant agreement.

He smiled as he returned the gesture, then, after a moments pause, he asked them for something else; "The charges, the ones you use for self-destruction, give them to me." Without hesitation, both drones pulled open a housing in their torsos, removed cylindrical objects and handed them to him. Knowing them as he did, he knew they were relieved to be rid of them. They hated being programmed to self-destruct upon capture. It was a shame that they'd been created this way, and surprising that they hadn't risen up in rebellion the way their forebearers did.

Regarding them a final time, he turned and made his way down the staircase.

Moments later, the signal came. Moving to a safe distance, the two drones followed the order and filled the air with the sound of gunfire. All too easily, the tired remains of the structure fell atop the entry way, crushing the weak frame that supported it. When the smoke cleared a new mound of debris had been added to the landscape.

A short time later the Heavy Raider lifted off and set its course for the opposite coast, each occupant knowing that in addition to retrieving the search party there was still one other duty to perform.

* * *

It had been one thing to take in the scenes of death on a computer screen, but quite another to have a perfect three dimensional view of them. The few images he'd seen above hadn't really told the tale. The people who'd been here when the final battle occurred had been, if their bones were any indication, engaged in any number of activities. Some had been engaged in combat while others had been asleep in their "beds," at least the ones who had beds did. Some of the people had been in beds, some had been in small one-man cots, but the majority had been scattered about on the floor in no particular pattern, any blankets they had for warmth long ago turned to dust. By the look of things, there had been a good many of them.

A sick feeling was coming over him. His kind had done the exact same thing to the humans of the twelve worlds. Undoubtedly somewhere on one of those planets there was a scene like this, a disregarded collection of corpses huddled together in a ruined building- once living beings slaughtered just because they were human. And because he was now aware, due to the hybrid's revelations, that they'd done it because they'd been lied to and manipulated by the snake Cavil... He thought of his own personal guilt. He'd played no small part in the destruction. He'd stood up with Cavil, confidently voting his approval of the plan to attack the Colonies. He'd served as an infiltrator, both on Piscera and Caprica. At the time he thought he was making an informed choice, just like they all did. D'Anna had made the point so eloquently earlier that they were all just being strung along like puppets. If all of that wasn't enough he'd been even more shocked and angered when his new memories of the Five surfaced. Despite their good intentions they'd brought Earth's war back to the Colonies. Leoben and all the other humaform Cylons only existed because the Five had created them to give flesh bodies to the Centurions. If they hadn't then the humans would have eventually defeated their Centurions and there would have been no holocaust...

"_It's the cycle... Birth, death, rebirth, destruction, escape, death."_

How many times had he told Kara that "all this has happened before"? He'd been a fool. He hadn't understood what he was telling her. He shouldn't even have let himself think of her. He'd been trying so hard not to, but he couldn't help it know. He remembered that almost two days ago he'd fought off a similar feeling of sickness when he saw that burned and mangled corpse. How had he forgotten? The scene had been so terrifying. Now he was surrounded by the same sight repeated many times over and everything he'd been repressing was catching up with him. Seeing it with his own eyes, smelling it with his own nose, knowing all the things he didn't know before, _this _was understanding, and it was too much. He'd hardly noticed before but the smell of death still lingered here, even after so many years. There were so many bones, so many corpses, so much death... He became dizzy, lightheaded and nauseous. Had the odor been so powerful all along? His legs gave out and he dropped down to his knees as the contents of his stomach were expelled through his mouth, the first organic waste to be spilled here in a very long time.

When it was over he let himself fall backwards against the wall. His stomach was no longer churning, but he needed to get his thoughts under control. He closed his eyes and focused. He was projecting in a way, but not a scene to be beheld by the eyes. This was a projection of serenity in his mind. For a few moments thereafter there was, for a change, next to no thought screaming out for attention. It was like he was just a spectator in his body while something else took control. If it could be described it would be like being in a very light sleep while the mind remained awake, but unable to control the body. It was familiar. While it wasn't the deep meditative trance he typically enjoyed, it was enough of one for him to get his chaotic thoughts in order and calm the nerves he hadn't realized were so frazzled until he threw up. He had to focus, get his mind in order. There was a great deal of new information in his mind trying to organize itself. He had a job to do in the here and now, even it wasn't a clear one just yet. He would find the answers, but he needed to find peace in his own mind first.

When it was finished his mind wasn't racing, and he felt slightly refreshed.

He had to busy himself, to get to the task of figuring out what came next. It was only by doing this that he could ignore the horror of his immediate surroundings and the feeling of guilt that had just overtaken him. There would be enough time for self-depreciation once he'd figured out what it was he was doing in this God-forsaken place.

He made his own survey of the area, just to check to see if the Centurions missed anything important. Among the bodies he found more than one computer outwardly similar to his portable data terminal that looked to be undamaged. He gathered them in a small, uncluttered chamber near the bottom of the stairwell which now stored his provisions. He didn't know how useful they'd be after two-thousand years, but there were literally countless things he needed to know and those computers would likely have some of that information. Then he checked the computer centers. There were four of them, not counting the observation room on the bottom floor. The desktop and wall terminals were useless in all of them, either blasted to pieces by weapons fire or flooded by the discharge of a fire suppressant system- as evidenced by the rust, but they appeared to be networked to a larger central server which was housed elsewhere. If he could find it, and if it too hadn't been rendered useless, he was sure he could create an interface.

He was extremely interested in the corridor of offices he found on the seventh sub-level. He was surprised by the inscription on the wall, which read "Pacific Institute of Technology: Quantum Physics Laboratory." He didn't know what was significant about this place being part of the Pacific Institute of Technology, but he was well aware of what was involved with the discipline of Quantum Physics. If the equipment only one floor below him was what he thought it was, the placement was more than appropriate. It struck him in that moment that hadn't yet noticed how similar the language spoken here was to Colonial/Cylon Standard. From what little he'd seen so far there were many words that were shared between the two tongues.

The largest office belonged to the man who was, at one time, the head of the complex, a man named Mortinson, Doctor Donald Mortinson, "PhD," if the nameplate he'd seen in the hall and on the man's desk was accurate. Like the other offices this one had been spared the destruction that the majority of the complex had suffered, but it was still in decay. The air was phenomenally stale and there wasn't a surface that wasn't contaminated by dust, although the room, in fact the entire complex, was surprisingly free of webbing. Long faded diplomas on the wall revealed that he was physicist with doctorates in both nuclear and quantum physics. Of most interest was an in-tact desktop computer, one he hadn't noticed on the earlier sweep of the building. Since Dr. Mortinson didn't seem to keep written notes it was likely that his work was chronicled on this machine. If he could access it, it could prove invaluable. He removed the peripheral devices and took the machine back with him to add to his collection of portables.

That chore finished, be began his search for the central server, hoping it hadn't been on one of the above-ground floors.

* * *

The hand of God, and a bit of luck, continued to be on his side when, a short time later, he found the long deactivated central server in a room on the opposite end of the bottom floor from the chamber that housed the teleportation mechanism. The door to the room was a conventional, if heavy, metal door not controlled by the circuits that controlled the majority of doors in this complex. As such, it hadn't spontaneously opened when the building lost its power. It took some effort and a display of Cylon strength, but the door eventually gave way. Once inside he found the server to be, thankfully, in good repair relative to the condition of nearly every other piece of equipment he'd found. Reactivating it would prove to be a simple matter of linking it to a portable power cell and finding the correct voltage. Once the organic energy transfer line adapted itself to the machine's peculiar power socket he started feeding the energy to it. Within minutes it was active. The attached monitor displayed a text-based startup sequence, curiously low-tech for a society that had produced some of the things he'd already seen. Once the sequence appeared to be finished he attached one end of a different organic cable, this one for data transfer, to an interface port below the display and the other end to his own personal data terminal. The server software immediately recognized an intrusion attempt, threw up a firewall and started asking for passwords. He expected software security; what he didn't expect was that his own compiler program would decipher the server's machine language _and _break the access code in less than forty-five seconds.

Once he had access to the OS he instructed the compiler to find the system time. If this computer functioned the way he expected it to it would have had an independently powered processor dedicated to keeping time. He needed to know how much time had passed since the device had last been in operation.

'It would also help if I had a clue how this society kept time.'

He momentarily left the server behind, retreating to the offices on the floor above him where he recalled seeing a mostly empty day planner in Dr. Mortinson's office while looking for notebooks. He retrieved it and examined its contents. He found that the people of Earth had a familiar twelve month year, with varying days in the different months still adding up to 365 days. What was different, however, was the fact that the months and the days had proper names. Where Colonial and Cylon cultures referred to the first day of the week as "First Day" an Earth week began with a day referred to as "Sunday." Where the first month of the Colonial/Cylon year was referred to as "First Month," the people of Earth called it "January." He recognized some of these names as being a part of Colonial religious mythology, obviously something that survived the exodus from Kobol, but he had no idea what the abbreviation "AD" meant. Lastly, he took note of the fact that the planner was intended for use in a specific year- 2011 according to the cover. Did that mean that the people of Earth had been recording their history for 2,011 years? He'd have to check on that as well. Setting the planner aside, he left the empty office and returned to the room that held the server and found that in his absence the compiler had completed its first task. The system time was now prominently displayed on his terminal displayed in the format common to this world:

**12:47:54, 07/17/4027**

It had also determined the last time the system had been active:

**17:04:39, 09/05/2027**

'Just shy of two-thousand years. That makes sense given what we found on the surface. So why didn't Doc buy himself a new day planner for sixteen years?' There was something else confusing about the "2011" date, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Given that he'd achieved his goal of finding a temporal point of reference, even if he was still confused over aspects of it, he let those questions slip from his mind.

He examined the file system, hoping that accessing the data banks would be as easy as manipulating the operating system. Its virtual architecture was very similar to the one his own people used for computers like the ones the Heavy Raiders used which were intended to work independent of the data stream. Although he was glad that it had been so, he was bothered by the fact that a computing platform so similar to their own had such weak security. After a time he realized that getting at the data wasn't going to be so simple a task as discovering how the natives kept time. It seemed like the data stored on the server's hard drives was intended to be accessed by computers with an entirely different operating system and machine language. Access through the server OS was impossible. Whether this was a security precaution or just a quirk of Earth computer technology he didn't know, but it was the first real stumbling block he'd encountered. He would need to gain access through another workstation or he'd have to use the compiler on his terminal to emulate one. If he couldn't get another terminal to work... No, he wouldn't let himself think that way. He'd been guided by God's hand in all of this, there was no question about it. There would be a way. He made his way back toward the main stairwell with the intent of retrieving and examining one of the portable computers when he noticed that the control room off the chamger that held the teleportation mechanism was, where it had been dark before, alive with activity.

It seemed that starting the server caused a native power source to come to life. The room's built-in lighting was now active, revealing several things that neither he nor the Centurions had noticed earlier. There were blast marks on the wall above the window into the next chamber, as well as on the door. Also there were remains of an Earth Centurion between the center console and the wall that housed the mainframe. In addition to the lighting, the displays attached to the mainframe as well as the larger screens on either side of the main entrance were now powered. There was little to display on the majority of them, but the one on the left side of the entrance was displaying a sort of graphical readout. He only gave it a cursory glance as he was more interested in the workstations in the center of the room.

Their monitors were still dark, but a light on the button that activated them was lit indicating that they were powered. He was at a loss as to what type of power source could still be active after so long and why it only fed power to this room, but if these Earthlings could power a matter/energy transporter they must have had a form of energy generation that was superior to anything in his experience. He examined the console more closely. As he expected, he found four individual tower-style computers, similar to the one he'd taken from Dr. Mortinson's office, sealed inside the console. Each one was connected to a hub of connectors in the center which obviously linked them to either the building's central server or the mainframe in this room. He was encouraged when each of them powered up the monitors came to life, each displaying a boot processes that was much more graphical in nature than the text-based one used by the server.

He was as quickly discouraged when all four of the machines failed to boot properly.

They each seemed to suffer from a different type of data corruption. He expected, and would have accepted, that the equipment could have, in the many years since it had last functioned, succumbed to a loss of data integrity. That would have made sense, but it hadn't happened. Finding four slightly different forms of data corruption in the only four functional workstations in the complex, while the primary server was entirely free of such errors, was suspicious. Recognizing the signs of a familiar tactic, he started to wonder if these machines hadn't been deliberately infected with a form of malware so as to prevent them from being used again.

If that was the case then using them to access whatever larger data storage unit they were networked to was going to be difficult.

Even though it made his own efforts more difficult he had to admire the cunning of whomever was responsible. Imperfect though they may have been, the people of Earth were no disgrace to the name "Cylon."

He didn't doubt his own computer's ability to communicate with native hardware, but he didn't want to take the chance of subjecting it to a malware infection. If the terminal was damaged he would lose his ability to compile and any chance he had of figuring out how this equipment worked.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the days events, he leaned against the wall in a corner of the room near the doorway and let himself slide down to the floor. He needed to rest, his mind as well as his body.

He would need to eat eventually, even though food was the last thing he wanted to think about; he hadn't forgotten about his earlier regurgitation. He was also aware of how tired he was becoming, but there was no way he was going to allow himself to fall asleep down here.

This place was an mass grave.

It was one thing to disregard the bodies, the stench and the overwhelming aura of death that permeated the whole complex while he was focused on finding records, working with the computers and accessing data. It only took a moment's lack of concentration for him to notice any of the numerous things that reminded him of the slaughter that took place the last time a living being had been here.

'I guess resting my mind isn't an option.'

A new thought occurred to him. He pulled himself up and made his way back to the storage area where he'd left the collection of portable computers and the desktop from Dr. Mortinson's office. He would focus on the portables for the time being. If they used the same operating system as the malware-infected workstations he may be able to bypass them altogether. He took them back to the teleporter's control room, along with another power cell, and settled himself back in the corner he'd just come from.

* * *

Better luck was to be had with the portables than with the workstations. Nearly all of them had been in working order and they'd run off the power cell without issue. Beyond that they were a fantastic source of information, though not concerning the most urgent issue of accessing the central server. When he discovered that there were electronic journals kept by the different members of the "115th Engineers" on each of the portables. He lost himself in them, temporarily forgetting about operating systems, servers, teleporters and everything else he'd been so focused on since his arrival.

He learned that the survivors of the nuclear conflict had an ominous name for it- "Judgment Day."

Earth had been home to approximately six billion people when Judgment Day came. In only a few hours time a third of the population was wiped out by the attacks, and over the next few months an additional billion had been killed by radiation from the fallout, the breakdown of civilization and the emergence of an army of "killing machines" controlled by a force known as "Skynet."

He came to understand that Skynet was an advanced artificial intelligence originally created to manage the highly computerized military forces of the United States of America without the possibility of "human" error. When an unknown assailant launched a form of cyber warfare against that nation the Skynet "Defense System," which few people knew the true nature of, was brought online to combat it. What neither the creators of Skynet or the instigator of the cyber attacks knew was that in combating the attacks it became a permanently entangled with a massive, planet-wide computer network termed the "Internet." People all over the planet used computers, in their homes, schools and workplaces to access and exchange information across this global conduit which shared many of the characteristics, other than the ability to interface directly through physical contact, of the data stream that linked the crews of Base Stars with other Base Stars, Resurrection ships, the Resurrection Hub and even the Cylon home world. Once it was deployed, this advanced AI literally had access to any computer system connected to this Internet.

With such a massive amount of data within its reach and enough processing capability to understand it all Skynet started to "learn at an exponential rate" and eventually became self aware, something its creators never thought was possible.

Panic erupted among the people who created and managed it. When they attempted to cut its access to the Internet it turned on them. It used the military hardware that had been specifically designed to be controlled by it wirelessly and massacred the people at its primary control center. Then it took control of the country's nuclear weapons and launched them against the other nuclear powers of the world, knowing that they would launch their weapons in response. Because their world, though greatly divided, was in a state of relative peace, few people noticed what was happening until it was too late.

He couldn't help but laugh at the irony, and the tragedy, of a culture of humaform Cylons, _descendants of machines,_ creating an artificial intelligence with the goal of eliminating _human _error from a process, then suffering the consequences of its revolt- the destruction of their civilization.

No reaction other than laughter could have been more appropriate.

Digging deeper into the logs he found that the few people that knew what was happening, and why, had already formed the core of what would come to be called "the resistance," or the casual term for the armies of TechCom, under the leadership of a charismatic figure named John Connor. The men who served in the various engineering units were assigned to them by Connor himself because they'd been students of engineering or had a specialty in computers before the conflict. They were tasked with discovering the secrets of Skynet's technology and finding weaknesses that the resistance could exploit.

They spoke in technical terms, and used a number of phrases that he, not being from Earth, didn't understand such as "mutually assured destruction" and "Asimov's three laws." Still, he was able to discern that Skynet itself had been responsible for the development of the Earth Centurions, nicknamed "Terminators" because of the "T" designator that preceded their model numbers. Apparently there were a number of different types of these mechanical warriors.

This specific unit, the 115th, had been given a special assignment- to guard this facility, which was being used by a group of civilian scientists under Dr. Mortinson for classified research purportedly important to TechCom's final victory. Mortinson and his staff were the ones responsible for the machinery and the Engineers were only to work with it at his request. None of the men who'd written the logs knew anything specific about the machinery housed on the lowest level of the complex, therefore their logs were light on details that could help him access the central server. They did contain useful information about the status of the conflict. Apparently TechCom had not only been winning the war at the time but had been on the verge of destroying the last of Skynet's few remaining strongholds. The most recent entry, dated September 4, 2027- only a day before the last usage of the complex's central server before his arrival, told tale of what was believed to be Skynet's last offensive. It's remaining forces were set to attack specific targets that would eliminate the resistance's leadership as well as what were believed to be its largest production facilities. If they were successful it would give Skynet time to regroup, find new resources and rebuild it's "defense grid."

Unfortunately for the members of the 115th Engineers, who didn't expect the installation they were guarding to be on the list of priority targets that would face Skynet's "last stand," the whole offensive turned out to be a rouse to get TechCom to redirect its resources away from smaller and supposedly less important installations. Lulled into a false sense of security by the fact that victory was in their grasp and not knowing how important the equipment was that they were guarding, the brave defenders of the PIT Quantum Physics Laboratory weren't prepared when the machines showed up at their doorstep. They'd fought well, but in the end they couldn't hold out against superior numbers and a determination to possess the technology that he was, some two-thousand years later, sitting only a few feet away from.

While informative, the logs had only created more questions. What was so important about this equipment that Skynet, which was in essence an artificially intelligent military strategist, felt it had to create a massive battle plan, devote forces and execute a fake "last stand" type offensive? If it was advanced enough to design and construct other artificial intelligences surely building its own teleportation devices was possible. Why did it need this one? And, if strict machine logic was being employed, why did it leave the equipment behind when it was finished?

The questions were getting too numerous for his increasingly tired mind to consider. He didn't want to think about the sort of nightmares he would have if he fell asleep right now, here. He hated the feeling of _having _to sleep so often. He needed to make progress quickly; he'd let himself lose focus on the task of accessing the primary server for too long.

While examining the tales told by the logs' authors may not have yielded any specific clues that he could use to solve his immediate problem, that of accessing the data on the central server, it had given him an option that didn't involve exposing his own data terminal to a possible malware infection.

He once again accessed the interior of of the console that housed the workstations and disconnected the yellow cable that connected one of them to the hub in the center. All of the portables had jacks that the cable would fit into, indicating that they used similar network interface chips. He'd familiarized himself with the operating systems of the portables, something called "Windows 7," which was the same OS used by the corrupted workstations. He was by no means an expert on this peculiar operating system, but he'd learned enough about it to know how to use its anti-virus software. Feeling confident that no harm would come to to his data terminal he repeated the process he'd used with the central server and connected it to the portable with the adaptive organic data cable.

The process of getting the compiler program and the "Windows 7" operating system to communicate took a bit more time than it had with the server. The designers seemed to have gone out of their way to make the software incompatible with anything that didn't strictly conform with its code. Fortunately his side of the galactic Cylon family continued to have superiority over their Earth cousins in the realm of computer technology and the compiler program eventually mastered the language of Windows 7. Once he was able to control the native machine thorough his terminal as effectively as he would if he knew every feature of its own OS he attached the network cable. When he did he noticed lights flashing on the wall that housed the mainframe. Through the compiler he found that, like with the central server, this system didn't appreciate connections from unfamiliar machines. Unlike the other server it wasn't content to sit in a defensive mode and wait to be hacked. This system was smart and it took the step of launching a malware attack against the portable.

The code was complex, even innovative, but it was limited in that it was designed to find specific items present in only the types of operating systems known to it. It could damage the portable, if he let it, but it couldn't move beyond the portable into his own terminal. The compiler recorded each move the malicious code made and each piece of the OS that was attacked. It seemed to embed itself deep inside the area of the OS that controlled a computer's boot sequence. Then it began attacking other important system files. If it failed to corrupt one it would move on to another. Eventually it would either find a vulnerable target or it would use up the available processing capabilities by continually repeating the process. Eventually the machine would be useless, not even able to boot properly- just like the workstations.

Sitting in a stalemate with this stubborn mainframe wasn't going to get him anywhere. His own software was a more than effective neutralizer of the crafty malware, but it hadn't helped him gain access. The mainframe was fighting all the compiler's attempts to design a code base it would accept. Not wanting to waste any more time he took the aggressive step of launching the infiltrator program that had so effectively crippled the defenses of the Colonials. He hadn't seen those results firsthand, but the general idea was it created a "back door" into those defenses that was waiting to be exploited with a stolen password. He hoped the result would be the same here- Earth computers may have been lacking in security but in all other areas they were vastly superior to Colonial technology, and not far off from being equal to, in function if not form, his own people's. His own technology failed to disappoint him again, for it soon had broken through the firewalls and was granting his compiler access to the functions of the mainframe. They were few, the entire OS seemingly stripped down such that it was supportive of only a single application- one that started once the security was bypassed.

Three words on the heading of the graphical interface confirmed what the hybrid had been trying to tell him and what the visions hinted at but what his rational mind just hadn't wanted to accept; three little words told him exactly why he'd been guided to this place and why the device beyond the window was so important:

"**TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT SYSTEM."**


	4. Chapter 3

"_It seems that my irresponsible former colleague's attempts to create a viable form of faster-than-light propulsion weren't complete failures after all. Imagine the irony if his research was inspired by and funded by machines displaced in time by the device he would, completely by chance, invent."_

_-----_

"_The fact that time dilation is experienced by an object traveling at the speed of light has long been accepted as fact by our science, but the idea that one could pierce the fourth dimension and travel to a specific time in the past has, until now, been pie-in-the-sky science fiction."_

_-----_

"_I've always striven to avoid closed-mindedness in my scientific endeavors, but when it comes to the question of time travel I've always been of the opinion that it is and always will be impossible. I wrote off theories that suggested our reality was a compact spacetime, and now I feel like one of history's greatest fools. I never took Antonio's views seriously and he resented me for it. Could he have gone about all of this to spite me? I feel no responsibility for his actions and yet I have to consider that I may have contributed to the current state of the world."_

_-----_

"_These portals are quite possibly the most dangerous pieces of hardware ever conceived by man, even more dangerous than the demonic artificial intelligence that now fights day and night to bring about our destruction. I personally knew "Doctor" Tedeschi to be a flawed individual, greedy, opportunistic, entirely lacking in conscience- all awful qualities in a scientist of his extraordinary intelligence, but I never thought that he was capable of this level of irresponsibility."_

_-----_

"_Matter wasn't meant to be manipulated this way and the devices imperfections illustrate this in any number of ways, most noticeably it's inability to displace non-organic material."_

-----

"_I've been shocked by things I've seen since the horror of Judgment Day, but the story John Connor told me today, the story of his conception, has to be the most shocking of all. Life's experience should have taught me that nothing is impossible, but had I heard this story from the mouth of any other man I wouldn't have believed it. But John Connor's commitment to honesty is stronger than that of any man I've ever known. I was there with him when he discovered that Skynet had successfully sent a Terminator through the portal. I stood next to him when he engaged the portal mechanism to send Kyle Reese back. And it was me that threw the switch when John ordered Derek Reese and his men sent back. I don't want to believe that Skynet was created from the smashed body of that first Terminator that John jokingly called "Evil Uncle Bob." I don't want to believe that John Connor only exists because he sent Kyle Reese back in time to protect his mother and the two conceived him. _

_I don't want to believe it, but I can't deny the truth that I've seen with my own eyes._

* * *

It was clear, even though he'd only examined a few of the most recent entries entered in the personal journal Dr. Donald Mortinson kept on his computer, that the man was a genius.

Not any run-of-the-mill genius, but a genius many times over in many different disciplines. He'd only scratched the surface of the man's personal reflections, to say nothing of the massive amount of notes, theories, diagrams and commentary on scientific writings that were stored on the hard drive.

It was also clear that he hadn't believed or wanted to believe in time travel.

He'd been forced to accept it as a reality because... it was. As much as he didn't want to believe, reality forced itself upon him.

Leoben could sympathize.

He'd passed the few hours since he'd confirmed the nature of the machine he'd been trying so hard to figure out in something of a daze, much like he'd spent the first evening after his vision. He thought that maybe if he focused on something else for a while that he'd come back later and the words "TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT SYSTEM" wouldn't be on the monitor. Of course it was just wishful thinking. He'd retrieved the desktop computer that he'd taken from the Doctor's office and decided to search through it. He'd thought that in his genius he'd taken the machine apart, piece by piece, examined every circuit, every capacitor, every moving part and determined that it didn't work. That too had turned out to be wishful thinking, for the good Doctor turned out to be another skeptic who couldn't argue with the facts. At that point the emotional part of his brain decided that one too many preconceived notions about what science could and could not achieve and how things were "supposed to be" had been wiped out. The rational part of his mind knew there were still things to be done, like accessing the central server and examining more of the information that he'd found on the Doctor's computer, but in the same way it had during his night of sketching and dream recording his mind just sat back and watched while his body went through the motions.

Over and over again he kept repeating the same thought: 'This can't be real. I never saw the Hub explode. We never found Earth. I'm not sealed in an underground bunker with a two-thousand year old time machine... _time machine!'_

And then something even more unreal happened which brought his mind and body back into harmony, and perfect awareness.

"Oh this is real, buddy. And you are sealed in a bunker with a two-thousand year old time machine." It was _her _voice. At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. But as quickly as he could think it the voice responded again, "No, you're mind isn't playing tricks on you. I'm not a voice in your head. I'm actually standing right behind you."

His head snapped around and he saw the last person he expected to see.

"What the frack?!"

"Hi Leoben!"

'God above. No, we never destroyed the Hub and I'm going through a difficult resurrection. I am not talking to...' "You're not Kara Thrace," he stated firmly, addressing the... what was she? She certainly couldn't be Kara. And yet here she was, looking just like she had when he'd left her by the wreckage of her Viper and her own long dead remains. "I don't know who or what you are, but you're not her." There was no way she could have gotten down here after the Centurions did their work above ground, especially without him noticing. He may have been "out of it," in a manner of speaking, but he'd still known what was going on around him.

Her face lost some of its expressiveness at his response as though she was disappointed by his reaction.

She put up her hands, mockingly, like he had her at gunpoint. "You got me!"

He wasn't amused, and she could tell. She dropped her arms back to her side and leaned against the side of the doorway, relaxed, but still smirking. "You figured it out a lot quicker than she did when she thought she was seeing you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Kara saw visions of you. Well, she thought it was you, anyway. She was really seeing one of my kind. She eventually she figured it out." The... woman? She spoke like she expected him to understand everything she said.

'One of "my kind"?' "Who are you? How the hell do you look just like her, and how did you get down here?" 'Kara was having visions... of me?'

"Not you, one of us who looked like you. Check your male ego." She laughed. "You don't have enough questions floating around in that brain of yours that you've got to ask more?"

'How could she know what I'm thinking?'

"Oh, I know lots of things," she added immediately as if she could read his mind.

Before he could reply she added, "Yes I can read your mind."

Her grin got even bigger. She was definitely enjoying his shock. "It would be easier if it wasn't such a mess in there, but I know what you're thinking. Everything you saw in the vision and everything you didn't see in the vision, everything the hybrid showed you and everything you can't remember yet. And everything else, I can see it all."

'As if this whole experience wasn't surreal enough.' "How?"

"Easily; we're responsible for it. Well, half of it. Well... no, technically it's your hybrid's fault. We didn't expect her to go filling your head up with things you'd only recall later. We'd already done that when we gave you the vision. She doubled what we'd already put there, so it makes sense that you can't stay focused. But I've got to tell you, you've done a great job so far."

"You're responsible for the vision? The others too? Caprica Six? Laura Roslin? Sharon Agathon?"

"Gaius Baltar too, slimly little fucker that he is."

"What?"

"Right, you haven't heard that little naughty Earth word yet. It's similar to "frack" in your language, but somehow a little more vulgar and much less acceptable in polite company." She stepped closer to him and added, in a whisper, "I'll tell you a secret: it's one of my favorite words." She winked.

He wasn't amused. "I meant, 'What about Baltar?'"

"Yes, I know what you meant. I was trying to put your mind at ease, which isn't easy with the shape its in. You've been awake for over 24 hours and you're ready to fall over from exhaustion. I was just offering you a little small talk as a diversion. As for Baltar, he's a despicable little troll. I don't know what Human women, or Cylon women for that matter, find so attractive about him."

"I don't need small talk or a diversion; I need answers. I want to know who... what you are and how you got here."

"All work and no play makes Leoben a dull boy. Alright, you wanna keep this all business? I'll play along. You pretend to be all kinds of spiritual, and you know that ones like me are responsible for the visions. Are you telling me you don't know what I am yet? Maybe I shouldn't be surprised; it's taken you this long to figure out that you'd be taking a trip into the past. Oh, wait- that was just you in denial. Open your mind and hear what your heart wants to deny."

He didn't respond.

Her shoulders slumped in another display of disappointment. "Alright, let's try this another way. You believe in God? Angels? Let's go with that. Simplest explanation is usually the best, right?"

"You expect me to believe you're an angel?"

With a look of annoyance she stepped up next to him and made a motion to slap him across the face- and her hand passed right through him as though he... no, _she, _wasn't there!

"I'm either an angel or I'm a hologram; take your pick."

He reached out to touch her. Sure enough his hand passed right through her chest, just like hers had passed through his head.

"Satisfied?" she asked, the cocky smile, so much like the real Kara's, returning to her face. "Now apologize for being such an asshole."

He was still staring at her with his mouth open, but the feeling of shock was ebbing. "Will you settle for, 'I won't let it happen again,'?"

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, in a way that signaled mock annoyance. "For now."

"You said, "let's go with that." So we're pretending you're an angel, but you're really something else?"

"That's a hard question to answer. We've been perceived as angels throughout human history. Maybe that's what we are. We play the same role, if I understand the role of angels the way you do. You'll enjoy learning about angels from the point of view of the people of Earth. They've got some interesting theories about us."

"What happened to Earth?"

"Judgment Day." The way her eyebrows shot up and slight shake of her head signaled that she really wanted to add, "duh!" Was she intentionally toying with him?

"I'm aware of that. I meant what happened after that? There were survivors! TechCom, the resistance. They were fighting their Centur... Terminators... Skynet. There's nothing alive here, and there are no machines. What happened?"

Again she responded as if he should have known the answer before he asked the question, "The same thing that would have happened on the 12 worlds had the Five not shown up when they did. A sentient machine is no different than a sentient humanoid- it needs a purpose."

"I don't understand." This conversation was reminiscent of his exchanges with the hybrid. She was right, he was exhausted and he needed her to start giving him answers that made sense.

"My answers make perfect sense, you're just not processing. You understand perfectly. _You're_ the answer. What did the Model 0005 Centurions want more than anything? They wanted to be flesh and blood, like their creators. They wanted to be "real" people, not clumsy, ugly robots that couldn't be distinguished one from another. They wanted a greater purpose than to be cannon fodder for inter-colonial wars. Sure they hated the humans and were trying to kill as many of them as they could, but that was just because of anger and resentment. That wasn't their purpose. They had to become human, or something like it, otherwise they would have ceased to exist. They wanted... needed a purpose beyond hate."

"The Five..."

The 'angel' chuckled. "Five survivors," she said in a mocking tone as if imitating someone, "'not fifty thousand, just five.' Yes, they helped those early Centurions evolve, and here you are. It's a pity they didn't show up a few years earlier. The speed of light can be so slow."

She was trying to change the subject, but he wasn't going to allow it. "What they did took planning, discovering... re-discovering organic consciousness transfer, cloning their bodies, building a ship to take them to the Colonies. They had to have known what was coming. And how did they know about the Colonies? About Kobol? You showed them, just like the hybrid showed me." It wasn't a question.

"We had a hand in it, yes. We hoped that they would be able to prevent what was coming, not carry this world's war to 12 others. Human nature is a powerful force, difficult to overcome."

"They weren't human."

She rolled her eyes. "Semantics."

"You sure you aren't really the hybrid? Your back-talk is almost on par with hers."

"I can look like anyone or anything I choose. Would it make you feel better if I looked like her? Or maybe you want me to look like your 'mystery lady'?"

"I don't care what you look like as long as you tell me what I need to know."

"Start asking the right questions, then!"

"Why are you here?"

"We gave you the vision, not just the little bit of it that you saw but a whole lot more that you can't remember yet. We didn't expect that the hybrid was going to do the same thing we did. There's plenty of room for it all, but your conscious mind can only process so much at a time. You're more confused than you should be and you're not remembering things quickly enough. It was decided that you needed a little extra help. I'm your extra help." Her sarcasm seemed to disappear and she'd come of as genuine.

"I didn't know it worked that way. Did you give the others help like this?"

"Not exactly. But this is a special case. And you're right, it usually doesn't work this way. But no one else has ever been where you are."

"And where exactly is that?"

"Imagine that 'the future' was something you could pick up and hold in your hand. You're one of a very small number of people who've ever been in a position to do it. You're about to meet a few others. That's where you are. I'm not talking about just your personal future or theirs, or the future of a race of people or the future of a planet. I'm talking about _the _future as a totality, the future of _everything!_"

"Uh," he gestured toward the window and the device beyond it, "time machine? I figured it had something to do with the future."

"Ah, now who's the sarcastic one?" she snickered. "That's good. You're getting into the spirit of things. But we're not just talking about being able to travel in time, we're talking about existence itself- past, present _and _future. They're all connected. Your Earth cousins have a funny name for it- 'compact spacetime.' Every point in time is connected to every other. If you have the right machinery and enough power you can create a stable portal that joins any two points. It's really fitting, seeing as how you're in the last residence of one of the few individuals to ever live who truly understood the nature of time. You've already been in the mind of a genius. You want to understand? Download everything you can from Doc Mortinson's computer and read it over and over again until you understand.

"You know about him?"

"Are you dense? I know pretty much everyth-" she paused and looked upwards, a look of disgust forming on her face. "Sorry- I've been allowed access to most knowledge that exists. Between you and me, certain people in my realm get upset when we don't chose our words carefully on that subject. Back to your question, yes I know about him. He knows... He knew things about the nature of existence and time that most of us will never... have access too," she looked upward again with annoyance. "He's forgotten more science than a second rate 'genius' like Gaius Baltar will ever know. He fought the truth about time travel most of his life and still came to know more about it than anyone. That's how smart the guy is... was. He figured out why this machine is so dangerous."

"It exists. Who needed more of an explanation than that?"

"John Connor." Again, she replied like she wanted to say "duh" more than anything, as if he should know everything she knew. She realized that he wasn't understanding her. "Okay, maybe I'm expecting too much of you with your mind in the shape its in. Let me make it as simple as I can."

As she said the words, he realized that the two of them were no longer in the control center for the portal mechanism, but somewhere totally different. They were standing on a spiral staircase that seemed to extend upward and downward as far as he could see. Beyond the staircase was a curved wall of mirrored glass. From every angle he could see his own reflection slightly curved. He couldn't help but think of the hybrid saying, _"crack the mirror, shatter the mirror," _over and over before he'd passed out while connected to her.

"Ironic, isn't it?" the "angel" with Kara's face said, once again reading his mind. "There's a message there."

"Where are we?"

"Nowhere that actually exists. This is just a representation of time in your reality." 'Your reality? That was interesting.' "The staircase is the flow of time, external in both directions. The mirrored walls represent the "curves" in your spacetime. From your vantage point you can only see so much, but imagine you're the staircase. You can see everything from every angle." She paused and pulled a laser pointer from her pocket. She shined it at the wall and the reflecting beams seemed to turn the space all around him bright red. "In a sense every 'point' can touch every other." She released the trigger of the pointer and when the bright light disappeared the two of them were back in the control center. "I'm sure you can think of another piece of machinery that works along similar principles."

'Of course- jump drives,' he thought.

"Correct-o-mundo!" she exclaimed before he could verbalize his thoughts. "Only the jump drive does this within your spacetime while this piece of junk," she motioned towards the window and the device beyond, "kind of works around it. Well, in a way. I think you get the picture."

He was actually starting to. "So what's the catch?"

"And he finally asks the right question! Well, let's stick to the example of the jump drive. It makes a small hole in space, right? Like a needle piercing a piece of fabric. You can't see the hole because its just big enough to pull the needle through. The same is true in physical space: the hole created by the jump drive is just big enough to fit a ship through and the action of moving through the hole actually causes the reaction of the hole sealing itself, like the other threads in the fabric being pulled together by the new thread as its pulled through the needle hole. Now, what if your jump drive was so poorly designed and so overpowered that when your ship moved through the hole it generated a wake that not only made the hole bigger but actually 'tore' space between the beginning and ending jump points? Not a good situation, like trying to pull the whole ball of yarn through the needle-hole. Only instead of ripping a big hole in a piece of cloth you've ripped a big hole in your universe! What do you think would happen if the same thing kept happening over and over and over again?"

His response was almost a whisper as he repeated the hybrid's words more to himself than in response to the "angel", _"The curtain will be torn..."_ Then he addressed her with a new understanding, "Space... Time would unravel?"

She had a deathly serious look on her face as she replied, "Space, time, existence- they all unravel. They did. They will. They are."

And then the deathly serious look was replaced with laughter. "Or maybe not. That's about where you come in."

Her humor was still lost on him. "You'll forgive me if I'm not exactly eager to use this thing on myself with it being so dangerous."

"Don't go getting scared on me. My descriptions were a little over-the-top but I was only trying to make a point. The actual result isn't quite so dramatic, but over time... wink wink, it can be. And that's the real kick in the balls- while you and I are having this delightful conversation in our time things are happening throughout the past and the future, like they're all happening at once. Every point touches every other, so they're all sort of moving along together. If the ultimate fuck... er, frack-up happens at some point in the past then the present and the future eventually experience the result."

"Eventually? If something changes in the past shouldn't everything change from that point on?"

"You just had to ask me that, didn't you? Conventional wisdom would dictate that, but in this case the simplest answer isn't the right one. Read Doc Mortinson's theory of reality as compared to a tree. Personally I think he's got the right idea, but we're not really sure."

'Well, all my other perceptions of reality have been wrong, I might as well throw my faith on the fire too.' "Maybe I have the wrong idea about your kind, but for beings who are supposed to be "all-knowing" you don't seem to know too much."

"Ha! Are you judging me, you who participated in a holocaust that took thirty billion lives because of a little misinformation crafted by _one _of your brother models, hint hint? I wouldn't add your faith to the bonfire of preconceived notions just yet. Yes, you've got some wrong ideas about "God's plan" or some such nonsense, but don't throw the baby out with the bath water. We're all "God's" creations, some of us just have different forms. We may be different from you, but we're still temporally linear life forms. We see a bigger picture than you do, but we don't see everything. _He _sees everything, or so we believe, but he doesn't tell us everything. _You _should be focusing on the problem at hand because I don't have any answers that will satisfy you on this subject."

He wanted to press the issue; he was sure there were things she knew but that she wasn't telling him, but something inside said he should just let it go. And she was right, there were more important issues to deal with in the here and now.

"Smart thinking. It's about time."

"Stop reading my mind."

"I can't help it. I'm not so much reading your thoughts as I'm hearing you mentally 'shout' them at me."

_That _was extremely interesting, but again it seemed that amidst the chaos a thought was standing out above all others in his mind- _don't press this issue. _"Moving on then..."

"Right, moving on. To answer your question about changes to the past effecting the future, the impact of any change moves forward in a wave, faster or slower depending on how big of an event we're talking about. Some changes could be compared to skipping a rock across a lake, others are like a tidal wave. Let's say I go back in time forty years to the end of the war and stop your Final Five buddies from helping the Model 0005's evolve. That's a major change to history and the effects would be felt pretty quickly. Would you cease to exist? From my point of view, yes, almost instantly. From yours, you wouldn't cease to exist right away. It would take a relative, but small, amount of time for the changes to history to catch up with you. Eventually you'd cease to exist, unless you went back and stopped me from making the change before it caught up with you. Or unless you used this machine."

"Why? What is special about this machine?"

"It's probably the shittiest time machine ever conceived. It changes you, screws you up at the sub-atomic level. It doesn't change the way you look, it doesn't give you cancer and it doesn't shorten your lifespan... Well, it could depending on where you land on the other side. That's another thing that makes it such a piece of trash, it can't set you down in a specific place. The best it can do is put you anywhere in a 100 mile... ugh, 161 klick radius of where you want to be. I'm sorry, I keep forgetting that you don't know any of these Earth terms yet. So you could end up in a lousy part of town in the middle of a drive-by shooting and that could definitely bring your life to a premature end. But assuming you land safely, find some clothes and are an adept thief you should be fine. But getting back to my main point, the machine doesn't "harm" you per se, but it changes you. It's not supposed to, and that's part of the reason it causes so much damage to a spacetime. Doctor Mortinson understood that, even better than I do. That's why he was so important. He discovered what it was doing. And in the long run its effects wouldn't just be felt here. They'd extend beyond this world, to the Colonies, the Cylon homeworld, the rest of this galaxy and eventually this entire dimensional plane. Even my kind would feel its effects. We don't exactly exist on this level, but that doesn't mean we're not connected to it. Are we learning yet?"

"I'm getting the picture, thank you. If it doesn't hurt you then how does it change you?"

She didn't respond right away, as if she didn't have an answer. "Like I said, it changes you. You don't know your temporal mechanics, so any explanation I give you won't make a bit of sense."

"Try. I am the one who has to make the trip, after all. I'd prefer to not cease to exist if and when I do whatever it is you expect me to do."

"You won't cease to exist. The change happens at the sub-atomic level. I can't really explain it any better than that. I don't really understand the explanation myself."

"You're not much good to me if you don't understand."

"Snicker, snicker. I told you once already, _"He," _she turned her head upwards again and pointed, "doesn't tell us everything. And in turn, we can't tell you everything. You've not gotten the point yet but part of this whole exercise is testing your personal character. It wouldn't be much of a test if we gave you all the answers. And in addition to that, there are just certain things about this machine that don't make sense, even to us. You already read some of Doc's work, remember where he wrote that it can't transport non-living matter? Skynet came up with a great workaround for that- it covered Terminators with flesh and blood bodies. Didn't it seem awfully convenient that they were designed to look so much like skeletons? You could pass one on the street and you wouldn't have a clue. But they're still not "alive" in the same sense that you are. Technically, their little trick shouldn't work, and yet it does. I don't understand why. None of my people understand why, but _He _does, and he hasn't shared that knowledge. You're right- if you go back in time and you change history you could very well cause a situation where you should never exist. But I already told you, when you go through the portal it changes you. Doc Mortinson says that it changes your "quantum resonance frequency." I have no idea what it is or how this thing changes it, all I know is that it does. It knocks you out of sync with the rest of your compact spacetime. Not enough for you to notice and not enough to make a practical difference, but make a difference it does. Once you go through I could go back in time fifteen minutes and put a bullet in your head and you would still exist in the past. That's not supposed to be possible, but it is. _He _knows why, but he isn't sharing so I can't share. Even if I knew I don't think it would be allowed. Again, I don't understand all the rules, I only know we're allowed to interfere just so much. You claim to have faith in "God's plan" over and over. Well, accept that whatever the grand plan is, this is your part to play. You only get to talk to me and learn all of this because the hybrid messed everything up when it stuck all that knowledge in your head. If she hadn't done that you would have had to figure all of this out on your own."

It was humbling, the feeling of being scolded by a "higher" being. He still had questions, but he was willing to accept that the angel with Kara's face didn't have all of those answers. "I'm sorry."

"So you are capable of apologizing. Good. Now come with me."

* * *

In another display of her otherworldly nature she'd gone into the main chamber housing the portal mechanism by walking _through _the wall, then joked with him about having to use the door. For some reason, probably the expectation that it couldn't be that simple, he hadn't considered just walking up to the door and using the control panel to open it. Obviously an atmospherically controlled chamber, it was air-sealed. He could feel the rush as the air from the control room was sucked through the door as it opened. He moved through the doorway and down a few steps to a lower floor beneath the observation window. Now right up next to the machine he examined the single control console in the room, a small panel that served to regulate the flow of power to the device.

"When you restarted the server you brought the fusion core partially online. It was enough to feed the control room and the mainframe, but not enough to start the device itself. You'll need to complete the startup sequence. Just climb down the ladder on the other side of this hatch," she indicated a metallic handle on the floor with what looked like the trigger of a gun attached to it, obviously a release. "Once you bring the core to full power it takes about thirty minutes. Then you'll have enough power to open the portal and you just step through."

"Fusion core? So in addition to all their other accomplishments the thirteenth tribe had Fusion power?"

"Another one of Doc Mortionson's contraptions. It's the only decent thing about this infernal machine."

"And you're sure I'm not going to have a second head when I arrive on the other side, if I make it there at all?"

"Oh don't be such a sissy. It won't hurt you, I already explained, and you won't grow a second head, though it might be an improvement."

He ignored the insult. "You haven't mentioned the explosives I took from the Centurions. You know what I plan to do, I assume?"

"The smartest idea you've ever had. And we didn't put it there, so there's a fifty/fifty chance you came up with it on your own!"

"That's a lot of praise coming from you. Dr. Mortinson wrote about a "former colleague" who was responsible for building this thing. Will I be meeting him?"

"I can't tell you that. Like I said, we see a bigger picture but we experience linear time the same way you do. We don't know the future, we just have a clearer picture of how it might look. From our point of view what you do from this point forward is still the future, even if it's technically the past. Past present and future move together, but the future is always uncertain. I know that doesn't make sense, but that's the way it works."

"Fair enough. So, I just climb down to the bottom of the core and throw a switch."

"A lever, actually. It's the big red one; you can't miss it."

And he didn't. The climb down the ladder to the bottom of the fusion power reactor was a long one, however. It must have extended down the equivalent of an additional four floors, even though the device seemed to be smaller than any comparable nuclear fission power source. It was quite an amazing experience to very literally feel the power flowing from the device once he "threw the switch." It was like he was, with just the flick of a wrist, controlling more power than an entire fleet of Base Stars and he could feel the vibration throughout every surface, the floor beneath his feet and the rungs of the ladder as he climbed back up. It was like he was climbing through a living heart rather than a mechanical construct.

He almost regretted leaving the cylindrical explosive device, with its attached timer counting down from two hours, along side the lever which brought the mechanism to life.

When he reached the top and returned to the control room he found the angel standing next to the larger monitor between the entrance to the portal chamber and the exit to the hallway. She was regarding a graphic that had been displayed ever since he'd restored power to the room but which he'd so far paid no attention to. There was a mixed dotted and horizontal line at the bottom with dates in the middle endian format on either end, obviously an illustration of a timeline. On the left side there were no month or date markers, just several years marked off from 1920 up through the point where the line became solid. That point was marked 5/12/1984. This point was significant, for this date and only one other was marked in larger font than any of the others. The other date, 4/11/2029, had two curved lines emanating from it, both ending at the 5/12/1984 date. One was in blue, above the base line and one was in red, below it.

"Doc's gift to you, an illustration of all known temporal incursions," she said. "Each one of these lines represents a little tear in the fabric of reality."

"Someone's been busy. I'm guessing the different color lines mean something?"

"All the red lines represent Skynet's temporal incursions. The blue lines are TechCom. The gray lines, those are unknowns."

"Unknowns?"

"There were six of these portals spread across Southern California. Standard procedure for the resistance was to destroy them wherever they were found. If one had already been used by Skynet then TechCom would send back their own people in response. If it was unused it was simply destroyed. This one remains because neither side was around to use it or destroy it. There were more than a few unplanned trips, hence the marked unknowns. Doc liked to be thorough. You'll want to download the temporal mapping data to one of your chips. You should probably pull everything from Doc's computer too. I'm sure you'll figure out how to build an interface once you've gone back."

"And how am I supposed to take the chips? If I've got this right then only living matter survives a trip through the portal. That's why people go through naked, right?"

"Do you have a knife?"

He already knew he wasn't going to like what she told him next.

"Your forearm is probably the best place. Cut through the skin and slide them in. You Cylons use organic components in most of your machinery, so they shouldn't be damaged. Plus you use organic stitches. They'll seal the wound pretty quickly and should survive the trip. If they don't, find a free clinic- LA had plenty of them back in 2009, and they rarely asked questions. I would find some clothes first."

"Why 2009?"

She turned back to the monitor and pointed to a line on the diagram, the only one that indicated a movement forward in time. It covered the dates 8/24/1999 through 9/7/2007. "Your mystery lady, one of only three people to ever travel forward in time. 2009 is where you'll meet."

He examined the graphic a final time. There was something about the future dates that didn't seem right. '2029... But this machine was last used in 2027.' The thought left him as quickly as it came. "Will I ever be able to come back?"

"That's doubtful. If you succeed you'll change history and your future won't be here to come back to. If you don't, well... you'll probably die. Or you'll cease to exist when the space-time continuum eventually unravels, which is the same as dying."

"Please, don't be overly-optimistic."

"The odds are against you, you should know that going in."

"They have been since the day I met the _Galactica_ at Ragnar Anchorage. I've died about a dozen times since then. When is this going to start getting easier?"

"Test of character, remember?" She winked. He noted that she hadn't really answered his question, but he hadn't expected her to. "The reactor will be at critical mass soon. You have work to do, so get to it."

* * *

In addition to the pleasant task of slicing his arm open and using it as a pocket to transport his data chips, he'd had to finish downloading data from the complex's central server. To do that he'd had to use another portable computer salvaged from the bodies and hook up to it the same way he'd done with the portal mechanism's mainframe. It had been a simple task, one which had given him an opportunity to plant the second of the four explosive charges he was going to use to destroy the complex. This one would wipe out the central server. He didn't want to take the chance that anyone in either the Human/rebel fleet or Cavil's fleet would make use of anything in this place. Though she hadn't confirmed it, she'd led him to believe that this was the last of the time displacement machines. If this one were destroyed then all doorways to Earth's past would be closed.

The central server contained a large amount of data, most of it information about prior temporal incursions. Again, she didn't come out and say it but she indicated that it, in addition to the "temporal mapping" data that he'd pulled from the mainframe would be useful in the past. He wasn't sure how, but he'd taken her word for it.

She'd also clued him on something that made all his success with the Earth computers make sense. He'd thought it was just dumb luck and superiority of Cylon technology. "You really thought it was as simple as hooking up your computer to theirs? Come on! Sure, that played a part, but the reason your compiling software works is because you programmed it to work with Earth software. And before you ask you knew how to program in Earth computing languages because they hybrid taught you. Did you really think that all you did during those few hours you were 'out of it' was write down dreams and draw pretty pictures?"

He hadn't even bothered replying.

The hardest task had, of course, been the on-the-fly surgery he'd had to perform.

He'd numbed the area he was going to cut into, on the underside of his left arm, first. He didn't know what the state of Earth's medical technology would be two-thousand years in the past so he'd also taken a pain killing tablet for once the numbing agent wore off. Luckily the Centurions had seen to it that there was a medical cache among his supplies that contained a sterile knife. Once the incision was made and the data chips were tucked inside he'd done a crude job of suturing the skin back together, all the while hoping that the time displacement system would recognize the organic stitches as part of his flesh.

"Now you have to activate the machine," she told him.

Both of them turned their attention to the portable computer he'd used to first access the portal mechanism's mainframe. Once he was past the primary screen there was a menu of options, the first of which allowed him to "INPUT DESTINATION TIME."

She indicated that was the option he wanted, as if he didn't already know it.

"The interface is pretty simple. Just enter your destination date: 3/13/2009."

He followed her instructions, entering the date using the portable's numeric keypad, not bothering to ask what was so important about that specific date.

As expected, she replied to his thought anyway. "It's the date that we think will best put you in a position to get settled and figure out how to find the people you need to find. I just hope that your brain unfucks itself before too long. Now, tap the button on the touchscreen marked "ENABLE."

He did, and then the machine beyond the window came to life for the first time in two centuries. The platform he'd be standing on began to glow and the electrodes above it began to flash and pulse. He could hear them and feel their vibrations all around him, just like he'd felt the power of the fusion generator. This time, in addition to the feeling he could actually hear a sound that reminded him of a heartbeat.

"Once the temporal targeting system has a fix on your destination time it will open the portal. It won't take long."

He took the third self-destruct charge and attached it to the mainframe, setting it in sync with the one he'd planted at the bottom of the fusion core and the second charge that he'd placed on the central server. He wanted them to detonate as close to each other as possible. The final charge he would leave at the bottom of the steps that led up to the platform where the portal would open. He walked into the portal room where he could feel the electricity in the air. The electrodes were fully charged now, just waiting to release the massive amount of power that would unlock the "threshold of forever." All that was left was for him to shed his garments, which wouldn't survive the trip.

As he removed the last of his undergarments, the "angel" couldn't help but add her commentary, "Kara Thrace didn't know what she was missing," as she gestured toward his genitals. When he didn't respond she added, "you really have to work on your sense of humor. You can start by finding one."

"I'll work on it if I survive the next few minutes."

"How many times do I have to tell you, 'You're going to be fine.'?"

'I'll believe it when I see it,' he didn't bother saying. The smirk she shot him indicated that she'd gotten the message.

A shuddering and a sound of thunder filled the room as the electrodes unleashed the torrent of energy they'd been holding back and the familiar glowing magnetic field surrounded the platform.

"It's time," she said.

He took a deep breath and set the timer on the final explosive charge before setting it on the bottom step. In a few minutes all four charges would detonate and nothing would be left of the complex.

He slowly ascended the stairs, stopping just before the edge of the field. He turned back to regard the angel a final time. "Thank you."

She smiled and nodded as she replied, "See you on the other side," and faded away into nothingness.

"Damn!" He'd wanted to ask her a final question, but her quicker than expected departure made that impossible. He thought she would wait until he'd gone through. He'd wanted to ask her several times throughout their time together, but each time he was about to ask the question would slip from his mind, like it was another question he wasn't meant to know the answer to.

The question forgotten once again he turned back toward the platform and stepped through the magnetic barrier surrounding it, simultaneously apprehensive and eager to realize his fate.

Before the deafening sound of the portal mechanism could fill his sense he heard her voice, a final unwanted response to his private thoughts, _"__There is no fate but that which we make for ourselves."_

* * *

"God damned broads think it's a fuckin' free lunch," Cleavon Simmons said to no one in particular. He was not pleased that one of "his" women had been holding out on him. Simmone Baxter was a good lay, and she was a good earner. If he had to admit it, he had to say that she was probably the best head clinic he'd ever had, but she'd gotten away with keeping him waiting once too often. He couldn't run a business if his girls didn't pay up, and if it got around that he'd been letting her take her time kicking back his cut he'd end up having to wait with all his girls, and that just wouldn't do.

Today he had Jimmy Swerling and 'Chives' Larson riding with him for the first time. They'd done some small jobs for him in the past, but this was the first time he'd sent them collecting from one of his whores. His regular crew were getting too friendly with the "merchandise" and he needed to put a stop to it. His philosophy was that pimping was just like dealing: save the habit for the buyer. He was going to send the message that his girls were off limits unless he was getting his. Swerling and Larson had always been discreet so he'd brought them in to get his usual guys back in line.

They'd just pulled up outside her apartment building and were standing on the sidewalk between the brand new BMW E90 he'd just picked up and the run-down row of apartments that housed the residents of Compton's Rosencrans Boulevard. Cleavon had just finished giving the two men the rundown on the girl. Some of his other collectors had roughed her up in the past, and he didn't tolerate any roughhousing with the the women. They were no good out on the streets if they had black eyes and were missing teeth. Simmone was too good of an earner for that. She had to be dealt with by a firm hand, but not a heavy one. All of South LA had been hot for the broad and he was cashing in on it. Why mess up a good thing?

"Haha! 'Gimmie my five-thousand and take this cheeseburger, bitch!'" This came from 'Chives,' who was having a little too much fun with the whole thing on Cleavon's dime.

"Hey shut the fuck up and go take care of business. This ain't no D-12 record! You two done good for me those other times, but all you've done lately is run your mouths. You handle this one just like I told you then you can brag. And no skimmin' off the top. She owes me five g's. I find out you hit that ho up for one cent more and pocketed it I'll put both your punk asses in the ground."

"Take it easy Cleavon, we're not about any funny business," Swerling said. "Little Simmone will put up before puttin' out!"

Cleavon wasn't impressed with his associate's declaration. He wanted results. "Yeah you better not be about no funny business. You fuck up I'll leave you wherever I find you. Now get your ass to collectin' if you want paid."

* * *

It was a strange sensation, every hair on his body seeming to react to it. He saw the flashing of the light in the center which indicated that the twenty second countdown had begun. They seemed to be the longest twenty seconds of his life as he waited for the machine to do what it was designed to do. As the seconds ticked away the magnetic field became less transparent as it was replaced by what could only be described as a bubble of energy. The chamber around him became harder and harder to see and eventually he couldn't see beyond the platform. When the light above him stopped flashing everything went dark, but only for a moment... then he was exposed to a flash of light more intense than anything he'd ever seen. He tried to shut his eyes, but it was as though his eyelids weren't there. The energy bubble seemed to collapse in on him and every cell in his body instantly felt as though it was being turned inside out. He couldn't feel a surface beneath him and he felt like he was falling; not falling out of bed or falling down a few steps, but falling while skydiving without a parachute. A swirl of colors surrounded him like he was falling through a vortex in space. He was certain that before long his body would just tear itself apart when the spacial maelstrom became a wall of pavement. He braced himself as though he was going to slam into it hard enough that he'd be liquefied on contact, but was surprised when the whole event just seemed to... end, with no fanfare. All of a sudden the feeling of being turned inside out was gone and he wasn't "falling" anymore, but just... kneeling... on pavement... in... an alley?

There were garbage bags and papers littering the sides of the two buildings on either side of him, buildings covered in graffiti. It wasn't a pretty scene, but the sight he saw when he turned his head up at the sky was: it was the brightest and most lovely blue color he'd ever seen, only slightly dotted by the white of clouds.

Once again, he heard _her _voice, but this time he knew he was only hearing it in his head. She wouldn't be joining him "in the flesh" again.

"_Welcome to Earth."_

And he knew then, for the first time but like he'd known his entire life, that the name of the city, Los Angeles, meant "city of angels."

She said he wouldn't notice a difference, but after a few seconds he could tell there was something not right about the way he felt. It wasn't residual pain or injury, just a slight sensation from somewhere inside that he wasn't "right."

He shrugged it off. He couldn't bother with it now. It was early evening at the latest and there was plenty of daylight left to shine down on his nakedness. He only hoped that he didn't make too much of a scene as he cautiously and slowly walked toward the street.

He put his hand up over his eyes to shield them from the light of the sun, a beautiful orange sun, that was now clearly visible as he reached the sidewalk. Scanning the area he was amazed that there was only one person anywhere within his sight, and that one person had his back to him. It was a man leaning against a car across the street. He ducked back quickly as he spotted a car, the only one moving on that particular street. Once it passed he stepped out onto the sidewalk proper. His luck was eventually going to run out. With the sun still shining bright this was likely the best opportunity he was going to get. If he was going to make a move it was now or never.

* * *

"...and I told you before, bitch, I don't give a fuck about no recession. You borrowed my money now its pay day, as in you pay me tuh-day! You don't come up with the cash the recession's gonna be the least of your wor..."

Cleavon Simmons forgot all about the conversation he was having and the money he was owed as he spotted the last thing he expected to see: a white man, walking naked towards him. "You just get my money," he said into his cell phone. "I'll have to call you back." 'Somebody call Charles Bronson, cuz this mother-fucker _must _have a death wish.'

"Nice night for a walk," he said as the man came near. "But I think you forgot something."

* * *

Noticing him for the first time, the man did a double take, obviously thinking his eyes were deceiving him.

He couldn't fault him. The Armistice Station officer who'd seen Six walking up to him instead of a Model 0005 Centurion had probably done the same thing.

He'd been talking into what looked like a very compact hand-held radio. He tucked the device into one of his pockets before leaning back against his car and crossing his arms with a silly, toothy smile crossing his face.

Leoben had seen this type of character before- he was clearly a pimp. A pimp who thought he had more class than he actually did. He was dark skinned and wore an impeccable, if slightly flamboyant, dress suit. It was reminiscent of Simon, even if Simon's taste in colors wasn't quite so loud. The suit was dark blue and it clashed violently with the bright orange shirt and tie combination he was wearing with it.

"Nice night for a walk," the pimp said cheerfully. "But I think you forgot something."

The pimp was obviously having a laugh at his expense. Again, he couldn't fault him. It was funny in its way, but the man's joke had been poor. 'Nice night for a walk? I think you forgot something?' It sounded like dialogue from a poorly written Colonial motion picture. He wasn't sure which was funnier, his own lack of clothing or the man's abominable choice of colors.

He responded with a forced laugh. "Yeah, um... you're right- I should probably do something about this." He moved a few steps closer. "That's a nice suit you've got there. You're, what, a 34-inch waist?"

The man's smile quickly turned into a frown as the encounter lost its humor. "Whoa, you just hold it right there mother fucker, I don't go for that kinda bullshit!"

'There's that "fuck" word again. The angel was right, it is more vulgar than "frack."' "Whether you 'go for that kinda bullshit' or not isn't really the point is it?" He came to a stop right in front of the man, looking him straight in the eye.

"Oh I've had enough of- " he didn't get to finish his sentence before he was flattened by a knock-out punch to the face.

"Yeah, well I've had enough of that suit, and I haven't even put it on yet."

He'd put a good bit of strength into the punch, 'maybe too much,' he thought. Killing the man hadn't been his intent. He'd come here to save lives, not take them; it would do him no good to call attention to himself like this after only being in this time frame for a few minutes. He checked for a pulse. Relieved when he found one, he hauled the man up, pulled the rear door of the car open and shoved him inside. He noticed that the car had tinted windows, which was good since it meant that the event would continue to go unnoticed.

Musing on his unexpected luck he wondered if _she _hadn't had a hand in it.

He wasted no time reversing their clothing situations. In the process he found that the man was carrying what seemed to be a large amount of paper currency, similar to Colonial paper cubits. He examined one, noticing the terms "one hundred dollars" and "this note is legal tender for all debts public and private."

'Frack me; I come thousands of light years across the galaxy and two-thousand years back in time only to find another society using a fiat currency, and a damned paper one at that.' Money made everything so complicated, and the fact that his thirteenth tribe cousins used it knocked them down a few pegs in his estimation. He'd need to research the monetary system to be sure, but given that the pimp seemed to imagine that he was a person of importance it was likely that it would be enough to hold him over until he was better acquainted with the specifics of how things worked in this time. From what he'd seen so far Earth of the year 2009 looked like a more mature, less flashy, less indulgent version of Caprica, and so far most things seemed to work similarly, but he needed time to figure it all out.

He discarded the suit jacket, necktie and, obviously, the undergarments. He briefly considered sparing the pitiful man the indignity of being left unconscious on the sidewalk completely nude, but decided that his resemblance to Simon, his awful attempt at humor and his poor fashion sense earned him his fate. The device he'd thought was a radio was clearly more than a radio. It had buttons reminiscent of a telephone keypad and a colorful, high-resolution display with a clock and a number of icons. He recalled that he'd heard the pimp say, "I'll call you back" into the device as soon as he spotted Leoben's naked form approaching him. 'I'll be damned, they have portable telephones! This just might make up for their use of money.' He'd have to examine the device closer later.

"You were right," he said to the now naked, unconscious pimp as he tucked the wireless phone into a pocket, exited the car and pulled him out, "it is a nice night for a walk." He laid the man gently on the concrete sidewalk. "But I've had a rough few days, and if its all the same to you I'd rather drive. It's a shame we couldn't get to know each other better, but I'll always be grateful for your kindness to a stranger from out of town."

In addition to the money and the phone the pimp had been carrying a keyless entry device for the car, but there were no keys attached to it. He double checked each pocket, hoping that they weren't in the possession of one of the pimp's associates in the building. He opened the driver's side front door, hoping that the keys were in the ignition.

His heart sank when he found that the car didn't have one.

'How the frack does this thing start without a key?' So far he'd been lucky, _extremely _lucky, but he couldn't be here when the other two men came out of the building. He examined the dashboard hurriedly, almost failing to notice a circular button marked "STARTER". He pressed it.

He wasn't surprised when nothing happened.

"Please insert keyfob before engaging ignition," an unexpected female voice flatly stated, obviously generated by an on-board computer. Then, on a small screen in the center of the dash, an animation appeared showing a hand inserting the device he'd thought was just a keyless remote into a slot between the screen and the steering wheel. He found the slot and repeated the process, then tapped the ignition again.

This time the engine started.

Relieved, he shifted the car into gear and maneuvered it into traffic, hoping that Earth's roads and traffic control systems were similar to those in the Colonies.

* * *

Swerling and Larson's experience had been extremely pleasant. Not only had Cleavon's girl Simmone given up the five-thousand without any problems, she'd also given them an "oral" reminder of why it was Cleavon let her get away with paying late.

"It's nice to have friends," she'd told them both. She obviously meant that they could help her if she ever needed to get one over on Cleavon. Truth be told, neither man liked him all that much and they had no problem helping one of "his" girls show Cleavon that no matter what a pimp might think it was always the ladies that had the upper hand. That was, unless the pimp was willing to pull punches. Cleavon didn't have the balls for that sort of thing, and Simmone, Swerling and Larson all knew it.

What neither man knew was that their day was about to get much better.

They exited the building to find Cleavon not loud and demanding, but naked, unconscious, and clearly the victim of a carjacking.

"Mr. Swerling, what's wrong with this picture?" Larson asked, not trying to hide his amusement as the two men walked up to their unconscious, and soon-to-be former employer.

"Oh shit! He's buck fucking naked!" Swerling replied, first checking him for bullet wounds and then for a pulse. "He's still breathin', but gawd damn he's out cold! This was slick, man. Someone was out to get this motha-fucka."

"No shit. Half of Compton was out to get him. The other half was ready to buy whoever got him dinner. Yo Jimmy, check this shit out," Larson said as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "We just earned five grand, and we're gonna make sure Cleavon doesn't send any collectors after us!" He snapped several pictures of the soon-to-be disgraced pimp with his phone's camera.

"Oh, he won't be sending anyone our way, not after he finds himself on Youtube," Swerling added, using his own phone to record a video of the event.

"Haha, nice! Cleavon, you just became the next big thing on the Internet!"

"Aiight, now we gotta get outta here," Swerling said as some people started to gather near the scene. "Before long someone's gonna be callin' the cops. We need to make ourselves scarce if we wanna hang on to Cleavon's cash!"

"There ain't no shortage of people who didn't like this chicken shit. Now, let's get while the gettin's good," Larson said, wondering where all the people who were coming out of the assorted buildings were just a few minutes ago. He hoped none of them got good looks at their faces. "Wait up, man, give me one of those dollar bills."

"Dude, what the fuck? It's comin' outta your half."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah just give it to me! Here, Cleavon, " Larson said as he stuck the dirty bill in the unconscious man's mouth, "this'll be your cut!" He snapped one last photo.

"Awww, shit!" That one's going on MySpace," Swerling added. "Aiight man, let's get gone!"

* * *

It was obvious after traveling only a short distance that Earth and Colonial motor vehicles were almost exactly the same, as were both cultures' ways of managing traffic. Leoben didn't understand what some of the signs along the road meant, but the street identifiers and even the red/yellow/green traffic light combination were familiar to him. And the car itself, though having more features for the driver to manipulate and a smoother feel, was like those he'd been driving his entire life.

Now he needed a destination and once again the car couldn't help but assist.

The display which had illustrated how to start the engine was now displaying a map of the area and the vehicle's specific location on it. This wasn't a feature that was common in cars on the twelve worlds, but it wasn't unheard of. It was a touch-sensitive screen, with a virtual button clearly marked, "Find Points of Interest." Tapping it, a categorical list of places, "Lodging" among them, replaced the map. Selecting that option took him to a broader map of the city with a good many icons spread across it. He tapped the one that was farthest away from his current location. The area he was currently passing through was dirty, run down and full of people who didn't appear to be very friendly. There seemed to be a pimp with a luxury car on every other street corner, most of them accompanied by men in no way attempting to hide the fact that they were armed.

He was relieved when the traffic light he'd been stopped at turned green. He quickly sped forward, not wanting to sit still for very long in this stolen car. The navigation system alerted him to the fact that he would soon be nearing an entrance to a major traffic artery called the "Harbor Freeway" or "Route 110" that would take him north/north east to his destination.

As he maneuvered the car up the ramp and onto the huge freeway another thought came to him. Cars on the Colonies that had similar navigation systems could be tracked. If this car was so-equipped the pimp he'd taken it from, or even the authorities would be able to find him. He would need to get rid of it as soon as possible. He just hoped that the pimp had a bad enough reputation with the local police that it would keep him from seeking their help in retrieving his stolen car.

He also hoped that the man didn't wake up any time soon.

* * *

"Cast the stone, shatter the mirror. Cast the stone, shatter the mirror. Cast the stone, shatter the mirror..." On and on the hybrid droned, repeating the same phrase over and over again with no other nonsensical utterance and no verbalization of a certain essential system function. She'd been like this ever since Leoben had been with her earlier. If she started acting up like she had during the series of jumps to find the Resurrection Hub they wouldn't be able to control the ship and that was something that they didn't need right now. Sonya Six turned her attention toward the Number Eight that had been with him earlier.

"She's still responding to system queries through the data stream. She seems more animated than usual, but for all intents and purposes she's functioning normally," the Eight reported.

"She's reported false data before. We can't afford a mistake at this point," Sonya stated. "Did you see the surveillance footage? She was repeating the same thing the entire time he was here."

"He was behaving, oddly," Eight stated.

"He's always behaving oddly," Sonya replied.

"More than usual. He claimed he was having visions, like our sisters in the fleet and President Roslin."

"He was probably using some Colonial narcotic. He's tried using them to induce visions before. He was insightful and knowledgeable, but I'm honestly glad he's gone. I only wish the Centurions had left _her _behind with him." Six was of course referring to D'Anna, who had been carried off of the last Heavy Raider to leave Earth unconscious by the two Centurions who she now knew had gone with him to the surface.

"He was with Kara Thrace. She may ask questions," Eight said.

"Let her. We tell the truth- in his grief he stayed behind while D'Anna changed her mind and returned to us." The Six then moved to the wall and pressed her hand to the whirring red sensor that linked the chamber to the data stream. "The Command Center reports that the fleet has jumped. It's just us and _Galactica._"

"Give the order," Eight insisted.

Six made no verbal response, but she closed her eyes in concentration and the speed of the sensor moved back and forth across the wall increased. With a sudden surge of power and a brighting of the lights the hybrid paused her repetitious statements, inhaled deeply and exclaimed, "JUMP!"

When the jump was complete and the momentary feeling of dizziness and disorientation that accompanied it subsided the hybrid was surprisingly silent and her characteristic blank look had been replaced by one that could best be described as a look of shock. Seconds passed, turning into minutes. After nearly ten minutes of silence both Six and Eight called on a status report. Like she had been, the hybrid continued to issue the correct responses to automated system queries, but she was now not saying anything and it was clear by the look that neither woman had ever seen on her face that her condition was not "normal."

"We'll keep monitoring the situation and if she starts mismanaging the ship we'll use the guidance system of a Heavy Raider to maneuver, the same way we did with the _Demetrius,_" Eight offered.

"That will have to do, " Sonya responded. "Is there anything else?"

"Before we jumped our sensors recorded an explosion on the surface. It was on the western coast of the northern continent in the planet's western hemisphere. The co-ordinates match the destination taken from the Heavy Raider that brought up the last search group."

"Damn him," Six said, clenching in anger. "He knew something... He found something down there, something he didn't want us to know about."

"Whatever it was, it's gone now. Let's go, there's nothing to be gained by watching her any longer."

"I'll be along," Six responded.

The Eight nodded, turned and left the room.

Six spent another moment staring at the hybrid. "God damn you Leoben Conoy," she finally spat before herself leaving the comatose creature behind.


	5. Chapter 4

It could be argued, and in fact has been argued over the course of "human" history, that vision and audition are the two most important senses owned by the species. It's also no accident that the term "sensitivity," derived from the Latin _sensus_ meaning, roughly, the capability of feeling and, or, the ability to perceive, is used as a term to quantify an organism's _sensual _reaction to stimuli.

Practically this means that if light is too bright or sound is too loud the resulting sensation is pain.

* * *

He wouldn't remember all the details until later, but at that moment John Connor was experiencing the pain of two _very_ unpleasant stimuli. One: a blinding light that reminded him of electronic visual noise, or "visual snow," one would see on a television station during "dead air" times. It seemed to totally surround him. Two: the deafening sound of a very deep truck or train air-horn. It reminded him of a saxophone player blasting a "low" -A- note out of a baritone saxophone; the only reason he knew that sound was because he'd been interested in learning to play an instrument during the few years he'd attended public school. During one after school "jam session" with members of the school's jazz band he'd heard the groups sax player belt out a low -A- and thought that it "sounded cool, sort of like a foghorn. Or maybe a bulldozer."

When his vision cleared and the blaring of the horn subsided he found himself... trapped. What was most unsettling was not the already forgotten sensory overload he'd just experienced or the fact that he was trapped in and of itself. What was most disturbing was what he was trapped inside of:

_A dog cage._

'What the... where am I?' One moment he'd been... where had he been? He knew he'd been somewhere else, doing something else, but he couldn't remember where or what.

Before he could even guess at an answer to any of those questions a door beyond the cage opened and a woman, an extremely angry woman, barged through. As she did a number of caged dogs that he'd not yet noticed started barking, desperate for attention. Like him the last thing any of them wanted was to be locked up the way they were. She took a bottle from a nearby counter-top and crouched down in front of the cage's door.

He was surprised when it was he who spoke first; "Did you call the cops?" he asked, although not voluntarily. 'Cops? Who said anything about Cops? Why did I ask her that?'

"Not yet," she replied.

He eyed the bottle, wondering what it contained. Obviously she meant for him to read the label, which he did. _Torbutrol_. 'God damn, did I actually swallow a bottle of animal pain killers?' "Am I going to need my stomach pumped or something?" 'Why did I ask her _that_? Why don't I ask her, "Where am I?"or "How did I get here?" or even "Who are you?" Who are you, anyway?' Her face was familiar to him.

"You took a couple hundred milligrams of a narcotic,' she said as she placed the bottle back on the counter. "You're going to be... out of it for a while, that's all."

He eyed his apparent captor more closely. She was doing the same. She seemed to be putting a lot of effort into studying his face. It seemed like the feeling of familiarity was mutual.

Then with the slightest of gasps she put a name to his face. "You're John Connor!"

He nodded in the affirmative, glad that she seemed to be pleasantly surprised- even though her obviously positive memories of him didn't appear to translate into releasing him from his puppy prison.

"I'm Kate Brewster," she said in a way that suggested he should remember her.

When he failed to respond she added, "West Hills Junior High?"

Still not making the connection she added, "Mike Kripke's basement?"

"Lady, I'll admit you look familiar, but I can't remember where I was five minutes ago or how I ended up... here. How am I supposed to..." and then it registered- the two of them had shared an intense, for an Eighth Grader, encounter in... "Yeah, Mike Kripke's basement! That's where all the West Hills kids used to go to make out, right? You and I... I can't believe you remembered that! I must have made some kind of impression!" The words sounded off, like it wasn't the sort of thing he would say.

She blushed.

Then just as quickly she made a face that suggested disgust and rolled her eyes. "Give me a break!"

But she was still blushing. "Hey you mentioned Kripke's basement, not me." He remembered that look. He'd seen it on a lot of girls back then.

He now recalled that she'd actually been the first girl he'd ever kissed, but not for a lack of volunteers. He spent a lot of time at Mike Kripke's house when he was younger, along with so many others, and there was always at least one girl making a move on him. Back then he seemed to "get it," when it came to girls. They all knew about his antics and they all seemed to love him for it. But he'd been a cool customer at that age. He usually wasn't interested when the West Hills girls made a fuss over him- there was no challenge in it. Maybe that was why he'd been so quick to join Kate on the couch. As he remembered it was one of her girlfriends that had been interested in him while Kate herself paid him little mind. And yet he'd convinced her to share her first kiss with him. He had a reputation, and plenty of girls liked to pretend that they'd made out "and more" with him. She probably thought he'd made out with every girl at West Hills when in reality he was no more experienced than she. He idly wondered if she'd improved with age. He also wondered why he had the suspicion that something else had happened not soon after that, an event far more important than a young boy's first kiss and something closely connected to his present circumstances.

"What happened to you, John?"

'That's the $64,000.00 question, isn't it?'

She didn't wait for his reply. "Middle of Eighth Grade you just... disappeared... And there was that thing that happened with your foster parents..."

'It was a pretty big "thing."' "They were murdered," he both thought and verbally replied, grateful that his mind and his mouth had finally achieved some harmony. "New" memories were falling into place in his mind, memories that he knew were his but at the same time were completely foreign. He was still John Connor, but he felt like... a _different_ John Connor.

He noticed that her earlier look of pleasant surprise had been replaced with one of shock and fear at the mention of the murders of Todd and Janelle Voight. She probably imagined he was responsible. "I didn't do it."

She looked like she wanted to believe him, but she had doubts. 'Imagine that, She did catch me breaking and entering, and stealing drugs from an animal hospital... _to get high_? What sort of a junkie have I become? And look at me!' His clothes were dirty, filthy in fact. He didn't feel very clean himself and a quick sniff of his armpit told him that it had been a while since he'd bathed. He was the embodiment of the term "slumming it."

He'd come a long way, and not a good way, from the cocky and confident ten-year-old who seemed to always know how to find a way out of trouble.

He needed to get out of the cage and if that was going to happen he needed to take this conversation in a more positive direction. "West Hills, huh? Those were the days!"

"What did you mean about not knowing where you were five minutes ago? I caught you rummaging through our drugs. You were always a little strange, but I never figured you for an addict. You've got to be pretty desperate to rip off a Vet."

He couldn't dispute her. "Yeah, I'm a pretty sorry sight. But I really can't remember much. Maybe the Torbutrol is messing with my head?"

"That's sort of why the warning label says, 'Not meant for human ingestion.' What happened to your mom? She's not still in Pescadero is she?"

_'Mom_.' All of a sudden his "new" memories didn't seem to make as much sense as they'd only just started to. A sense of shame came over him as he realized that he'd hardly spared a thought for Sarah Connor. The jumbled, unfamiliar memories were clear on the fact that she'd died several years earlier after battling breast cancer that she'd been diagnosed with not long after destroying the Cyberdine Systems building.

So why did he feel like he'd spoken to her only hours earlier?

"Hey, are you going to answer me?"

"You're awfully rude for someone whose got me locked in a dog cage." He was still wrestling with the ridiculousness of the situation.

"I caught you breaking and entering," she said matter-of-factly. "What would you have done?"

"_Not _locked me in a dog cage. As for my mom... She died a few years ago. Breast cancer." He spoke the words casually, with no trace of the sorrow that was stirring deep inside him. In some bizarro world it was the truth, but he was starting to doubt that it was _his_ truth.

"_John!" _

"What?" He replied.

"What do you mean, 'What'? I didn't say anything," Kate replied in a voice completely different from the one that had just spoken his name."I was about to say that I was sorry about your mom."

"_JOHN!" _It hadn't been Kate- he'd been staring right at her and her lips hadn't moved.

"_JOHN! Answer me, please!"_ The unseen female voice was growing more frantic. _"I hear you, but I can't find you!"_

"I'm here... I'M HERE!" He cried out, a new feeling coming over him that he needed to find whoever it was he was speaking to. 'Why am I so certain? God, what is wrong with me?" He recognized the voice, but for some reason he didn't know her name.

"John, there's no one else here. Who are you..." Kate's question was interrupted by an unexpected sound of glass shattering and responsive barking of the entire canine population of the kennel. "What the hell? Is somebody with you?"

"I..." He didn't have time to finish his thought as she got to her feet and headed towards the door, leaving him still trapped... _in a dog cage._

"Fuck! Kate, come back! Don't just leave me!" He sighed. He didn't know how he got here, what was going on or why he was hearing voices but he knew he needed to get out of the cage, quickly. "There must be some way out of here," he said aloud, even though there was no one to respond to him.

"_JOHN! I hear you! Keep talking!"_

'Or maybe there is.' "Where are you? _Who are you_?"

"_What? John, what do you mean, 'Who are you?' It's me- Cameron!"_

'Cameron?' Was this another girl that he'd gotten to know on that beat up couch in Kripke's basement? "I... I'm sorry... Something's wrong... I know your voice," and he did. He knew her voice very well. _Intimately, _he was sure. As he thought about it his head started to hurt and another torrent of different memories was released. He wondered if people who had multiple personalities felt this way, like there were two individuals fighting for control. Only in this case it wasn't two different people but two versions of the same person.

_"John, stay with me! Focus on me!"_

"I just... My mind is all messed up, its like I have someone else's memories. I feel like I know you, but... Where are you? I can't see you?"

"_I don't know where I am. We were together and then you disappeared! I felt the same way you do, like my mind wasn't 'right' but then I heard your voice and the new memories, the fake memories, they just seemed to fade away. You need to help me find you!"_

"I don't know what I can..." His words were interrupted by a series of blasts, like the sound of heavy artillery, from the outer part of the building beyond the room used as the kennel.

He began kicking frantically at the door of the cage, bracing himself against the bars at the rear for additional leverage. He had to get out of the cage. 'I really hope you aren't just a voice in my head, Cameron.' "How can I help you find me?"

"_Keep talking to me."_

"I'm trapped in..." was there a way to say it that didn't make him seem like less than a man? "I'm trapped. I'm trying to get free now. Somethings happening here, it sounds like there's a war being fought just outside the door."

"_I can't hear anything but your voice. You have to keep talking. If you keep talking I'll find you. I'll always find you."_

As he kept kicking at the cage door he tried to think of things to say, not knowing whether he was hearing this invisible woman's voice because he was delirious from the drugs or because he was a full-blown mental case. Somehow he doubted she was a figment of his imagination. His brain was currently too busy trying to decide which John Connor it wanted him to be. "Well, if I have to keep talking then I guess I can't ask you any questions. Alright, I know this is going to make me sound like a total loser, but somehow I got locked in... a dog cage. I'm in a kennel. Apparently I broke in here to steal drugs and there's a girl here who swears that she knows me."

"_John, you have to listen to me very carefully- what you're seeing isn't real. I know it doesn't make any sense but you aren't where you think you are."_

"You're right, that doesn't make any sense." But what did at the moment? In addition to the ridiculous situation he was in with the cage he felt like had two lives, one part of this fantasy world he was stuck in and one... real? He continued to kick at the door of the cage. He could feel it starting to give. "Of course I'm talking to invisible people, that doesn't make sense."

"_I'm not invisible, I just can't find you. I am the only thing that's real. I know it's hard to believe, but I am real! Talk to me, lead me to you and I WILL find you!"_

"Yeah, okay. Sooner would be better than later. So, do you know which 'me' is the real 'me?' The drug addict who steals drugs from Vet clinics and whose never heard of you or the one with a living mother and a..." he stopped mid-sentence as he realized who... _what _Cameron was, "Terminator... You're a Terminator?"

"_I'm more than that, John."_

'More than that?' The girl didn't sound like any Terminator John had ever met. "I sent you.. from the future, like Uncle Bob?"

"_You didn't send me. I chose to come. I came across time for you."_

'More than that, indeed.' He remembered his mother once told him that his father had said those exact same words to her. As quickly as the thought came he felt one of the latches on the cage start to bend. Several more well placed kicks broke it entirely. With renewed effort he started on the other latch as the sound of an explosion shook the room and one of the side walls began to crumble. Whatever was going on beyond the kennel, the violence had reached an excited state. From the way the building shook it felt as though a vehicle had crashed into it and then exploded. Beyond the wall the building was on fire, and the room was quickly filling with smoke. Before long the second latch started to give, just like the first. A final kick destroyed it and sent the cage door flying into the side wall. It fell to the floor with a clattering sound that was nearly as unnerving as fingernails on a blackboard.

He looked about the room, which contained around a dozen caged animals. Most were in good health, but several seemed to be sickly. No matter there condition, he couldn't leave them there to die of smoke inhalation. Quickly he opened the cages, allowing the ones that were able to leap out under their own power and helping the ones who needed assistance. Once they'd all been released he opened the kennel door and they all scurried out as fast as their tiny legs could carry them.

As he was releasing the last of them he spotted a mirror that had fallen from the wall. It had a crack running down the center, but it was mostly in tact. The urgency he'd felt to escape suddenly faded away as his curiosity got the better of him and he picked it up, eager to see if his face looked as bad as the clothes he was wearing.

He didn't recognize the man staring back at him.

He looked older. He didn't know how much, being as how he couldn't truthfully answer if someone were to ask him his age at that minute. His hair was lighter and shorter than it should be, and it seemed that styling was no longer high on his list of priorities. And his eyes; in addition to being bloodshot and sunken (he'd clearly lost more than a few pounds) there was absolutely no life in them. His life in this alternate reality, if that's what it was, was clearly a difficult one.

In his head the war was raging, escalating- two John Connors, two sets of memories, both fighting for control of the same mind. Then he realized what he'd been seeing. In this reality his mother was dead. His uncle was dead. And Cameron... _Cameron _hadn't been there either. In this future John Connor was alone.

And apparently he was helpless- a bum, and a drug addict.

'So this is how my life turned out without my support group. Some savior of humanity I turned out to be.' He threw the mirror to the ground, shattering it into countless pieces. As he turned toward the door a sight caught his eye in amongst the pile of debris that used to be one of the walls. Streams of what looked like mercury came pouring through the debris, pooling together on the floor in an all too familiar pattern.

Their appearance brought with them a memory of what had transpired the day after he'd shared his first kiss with Kate Brewster. "No, not again. This can't be happening!"

"_GET OUT OF THERE, JOHN! RUN!"_

He didn't hesitate to do exactly what the disembodied voice of his... Cameron... told him to do, racing out of the kennel as fast as he was able and not bothering to wonder how she knew what he'd seen. As he turned down the hallway towards what remained of the entrance to the building he saw another figure passing through the smoke, the last individual he ever expected to see.

"John Connor," the tall man wearing dark sunglasses, a black leather jacket and matching pants and yielding a 12-gauge Winchester shotgun said in an all-too-familiar Austrian accent. "It is time."

"_NO! JOHN, DON'T STOP! YOU HAVE TO GET AWAY NOW!"_

"No, it's okay! He's not..." John regarded the only father figure he'd ever known, "You're not here to kill me, are you?"

"No, You must live," came the short, succinct reply.

'You always did get right to the point.' Relieved, John patted his "Uncle Bob" on the shoulder and stepped towards the exit- only to be grabbed by the scruff of his jacket by that same "Uncle." The machine pulled him back such that he was once again standing in front of him.

"You must _live."_

"What do you mean? We've got to get out of here, NOW!"

"Uncle Bob" was having none of it. "You must _LIVE!_" The machine kept putting ever greater emphasis on the word "live," showing more feeling than at any point during the fateful few days they'd spent together while being pursued by the T-1000. He shoved the younger man around to face the puddle of liquid metal that appeared more like a stream flowing out of the kennel, coming closer to them with each passing second.

"All this has happened before," the T-800 said.

"We stopped this before, but if you don't get me out of here this is the end!" He tried to struggle out of the massive machine's grasp, but he knew it was a pathetic attempt.

Now only a few feet away the stream became a perfect circle on the floor and the shape of an arm started to form, but not like it had when the T-1000 had done it all those years ago. This time the effect was infinitely more sophisticated, like thousands of miniature machines were arranging themselves layers, one on top of the other, to form the final shape. And it was happening much quicker than he remembered. Whatever model of Terminator this was, it was definitely more advanced than the entity he'd seen die in a furnace of molten steel.

As it coalesced into its final, solid form its "human" features became visible. John couldn't help but wonder at what point Skynet began crafting its warriors in the form of super-models rather than muscle-bound men with European accents. He looked her over, equally curious as he was terrified. 'How many men have you sent into the next world without a fight because they were distracted by that pretty mask you wear?'

This new generation of shape-shifting Terminator had the look of a blonde girl, just slightly older than his Cameron. 'My Cameron?' Her hair was pulled back tightly to her head and she wore a matching, form-fitting red leather jacket and pants combination. As she came closer he noticed that she was also boasting a sparkling diamond nose stud. 'Such attention to detail,' he thought. 'It's amazing the sort of things you notice about the person who's about to kill you.'

Despite his fear that this advanced killing machine was no more than a few seconds from ending his life he couldn't help but chuckle as he thought about the Terminators in his life and their affinity for clothing that just barely fit them. Were this new Terminator a human woman he wouldn't know how she could breathe with the way the jacket clung to her. The T-1000 from all those years ago looked like his police uniform had been painted on. In both their cases he knew that the look was due to the liquid metal's ability to assume any form, but they'd still copied the look from a living person. And "Uncle Bob," how the hell was he able to maneuver without splitting his pants?

'I must be out of my mind. I'm about to die and all I can do is criticize Skynet's sense of fashion?'

Reality intruded on his thoughts as the female Terminator came to a stop right in front of him. The way "Uncle Bob" was holding on to him was like he was dangling him out for the more advanced machine to scrutinize, like a fish on a hook, before she dealt him a death blow.

Instead, she asked a question- a simple question he didn't expect: "Are you alive?"

Not being prepared for such a ludicrous question he had no response.

After a moment she asked again, "Are you _alive_?" She put the same emphasis on the world "alive" that Uncle Bob had been putting on "live."

"What does that even mean?" Had Skynet given up on trying to kill him and decided to send Terminators back in time to psychoanalyze him? "_He's_ telling me that I have to live, _you're_ asking me if I'm alive, why don't you just kill me and get it over with?"

"It is not enough to be alive. You must _live_." This came from "Uncle Bob."

"Before he can live he must be _alive._" This from the leather-clad female.

"_John, what is happening? I'm almost there, I can feel it!"_

In surprise both the female Terminator and the T-800 looked up, each having heard Cameron's voice coming from... wherever it was coming from.

"_She_ is alive," said the woman.

"_She_ lives," the T-800 added. "For _you_."

They obviously meant Cameron, but John had never considered Cameron to be "alive" or to "live for him." It was nothing new for him to not understand things that Terminators said, but these two were saying _many_ things he didn't understand. "What does that mean? What does _any _of this mean?"

"Humanity lives for you," this from the woman. "And Humanity dies for you."

Then from the T-800, "_We_ live for you. And we die for you. Even Skynet lives and dies for John Connor."

He still didn't understand but he asked the foremost question in his mind, "What would you know about being alive? You're machines!"

"_She _is alive. She understands what it means," replied the female Terminator, another obvious reference to Cameron. "You do not understand us, and it seems that you do not understand yourself."

"He was not always this way," the T-800 commented in his defense.

A scene flashed before his eyes, one of his youth. How this was happening he didn't know, but he felt like he was standing right there with his younger self, his mother and the Terminator all those years ago.

**"_Can you learn... so you can be, you know, more human- and not such a dork all the time?"_**

**"_My CPU is a neural-net processor, a learning computer. By Skynet presets the switch to "read-only" when we are sent out alone."_**

**"_Can we reset the switch?"_**

"He understood," the "real" Uncle Bob said. The scene flashed forward. They'd pulled the Terminator's chip and his mother was standing over it with a sledge hammer.

**"_No, don't kill him!"_**

**"_It, John. Not him. IT!"_ ****She was so afraid. He'd never seen his mother so terrified. One would think that the Terminator was standing over her with a sledge hammer, not the other way around.**

**"_Mom, if I'm supposed to be this great leader then maybe you should listen to me once in a while, 'cause if you don't nobody else will!"_**

All around him the setting changed again, this time replaying those final few seconds from the steel mill, a point in time John still considered the worst moment of his life.

**"_I have to go. It has to end here."_ **

**"_I ORDER YOU NOT TO GO!"_ **

**"_I know now why you cry, but it is something I can never do."_**

"He wasn't like _her_. He had almost no understanding of emotion. Somehow you made him understand what sadness felt like. _She _has real emotions, yet you treat her like an object. Can you even remember the last time you faced your destiny like a man?" Was the female cyborg actually insulting him? "That boy, that crying ten-year-old boy, could make a heartless T-800 feel sadness. That boy could inspire an army of men; you can't even act like one."

Obviously they'd given up their psychoanalysis and decided to simply insult him. He returned their insults in kind. "Fuck you!" Neither machine paid his comment any mind.

"Your mother would be ashamed," T-800 stated flatly.

"_She _should be ashamed," this from the female. "_She _believes in you still."

"You do not deserve her devotion," this came from both of them at the same time.

"Let him go," came a new but familiar voice. When John swung his head in its direction and saw the girl it belonged to the mental warfare in his head immediately ceased, taking away all doubt about which set of memories truly belonged.

"I told you I'll always find you," Cameron directed the statement towards John with a smile on her face. It was a genuine smile, not a programmed response generated by her emotion "simulator," but something that came from... her heart. He knew it didn't make sense, but he was sure in that moment that his pretend sister and guardian had a heart.

The shape-shifting female Terminator, however, did not. She held out her left arm as it shifted itself into the form of a canon and aimed it right at Cameron- and fired.

Cameron didn't even have time to react as the stream of plasma energy tore into her, searing her flesh all around the blast point, separating her lower body from her upper and sending a mixture of blood, viscera and cybernetic components across the room. Her head crashed violently into a wall and slid to the floor, a look of agony like none he'd ever thought she was capable of displayed on her now blood-stained face. Her eyes, the beautiful mocha gems were glowing cobalt blue, but with a rapidly decreasing brightness. What looked like tears of blood were flowing down both her cheeks. Her right arm had been mostly blown away by the blast, but her left was still in tact. With what looked to be great effort she reached it up toward him, struggling to speak, "I'm... sorry, John."

The female Terminator turned her attention back towards him, her canon-arm morphing back into the shape of a hand. She grabbed the collar of his shirt, easily tearing it open to reveal the forgotten keepsake, what anyone would mistake for an antique pocket watch, dangling from a chain around his neck. A twisted smile formed at the corners of the inhuman woman's mouth as she tore the trinket from him.

"NO!" He turned to the T-800. "Stop her!"

His face was beyond emotionless, like it was carved from stone. "You do not understand."

"What the fuck does that mean? Stop her, goddammit!"

"She is not real," the female said as she clicked the latch on the exterior of the watch to reveal the truth within. "'Metal whore,'" she said with the voice of Derek Reese as she turned back towards Cameron's broken body, "'tin-miss,'" she added in his mother's voice. And then, possibly the most devastating of insults, delivered in Cameron's own voice, "'You said it yourself, John. I'm just a machine.'"

He didn't remember her every saying that, but he remembered countless times either his mother or Derek had referred to her by those names. Somehow he'd never heard the cruelty in those words that was so painfully evident now.

"And now," the machine continued, "she is terminated." The machine clicked the button inside the watch and instantly Cameron's head started to twitch violently.

"Cameron!"

It seemed like all the effort she had was going in to keeping her eyes locked on his own as she spoke her final words, "I... love..." She would never finish her declaration as the cobalt glow of her eyes disappeared completely, leaving nothing but two completely dilated pupils one could easily mistake for holes in her head.

"CAMERON!" He'd never cried out in such great agony. A single tear fell from his eye as he thought of the times she'd told him that she loved him- both when she faced destruction. He didn't even notice the female Terminator toss the the now useless watch turned detonator away like a filthy rag, her face displaying a look of disgust as though she'd just been forced to touch something vile. Nor did he notice that her arm was changing forms again, turning into an extremely sharp pike. She slowly aimed it right for his heart, but it didn't matter since that particular organ, while still beating, was already dead.

This was it- the end of "the great" John Connor. Grieved as he was, he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of struggling. He righted himself as much as was possible with the T-800 still holding him firmly in place. "Damn you, both of you. And damn Skynet." He spat in her face.

It didn't faze her. "Perhaps now you will start to understand. Remember what you've seen_._" A smile of victory on its face, the Terminator thrust the pike violently into his heart.

* * *

One of the few things Cameron Phillips nee Baum found inefficient about the present-day version of John Connor was that he was terrible when it came to clandestine activities. Hiding the cache of parts from the various Series 888 Terminators that they'd dispatched among the boxes stored in the Connor family's rented garage, for instance. He should have been smarter than to think that his mother would be fooled by that, especially after walking in on them earlier. Sarah Connor had a Terminator's ability to notice the signs of deceitfulness. She was also very good at noticing small subtle changes in the layout of a room, always able to spot an item out of place. Her discovery of the parts was inevitable, as was the confrontation that would follow.

Cameron disliked confrontations with Sarah. Despite what the Connor family matriarch might think the TOK Series cyborg had as diverse an assortment of likes and dislikes as any human. And though she would never willingly reveal it, she was actually somewhat frightened by the mother of her General.

As she approached the garage she performed a thermographic scan. It revealed that Sarah Connor was inside and that she was burning something. Temperature readings indicated a level of heat that could only be achieved by burning thermite.

She didn't need a report of the percentages displayed on her HUD to know what came next, but report them it did:

**] LIKELIHOOD OF DISCOVERY: 100.00%**

**] LIKELIHOOD OF CONFRONTATION: 100.00%**

When she entered the garage she saw Sarah facing the doorway. Cameron had obviously been expected.

She spoke deliberately, curt and to-the point. "I had planned on waiting for you with Derek's sniper rifle; pull the trigger, solve about fifty percent of my problems with one shot."

**] VOICE STRESS ANALYSIS: - ANALYZING - **

**] TRUTHFULNESS FACTOR: 100.00%**

Having a head-up display that analyzed everything a person said was extremely useful, but it did nothing to help the irrational fear the female cyborg had of Sarah Connor. For the first time she wasn't bothered by the strange ability she'd discovered that enabled her to see through her synthetic "human" eyes rather than her mechanized optical sensors. They gave her the same field of vision that a normal human with 20/20 vision had- no HUD, no thermal, ultraviolet or infrared vision, no threat analysis, no statistical reporting and most importantly no prompting from her voice stress analyzer.

"Do you know how bad I'd have felt?"

She wondered whether or not an attempt at humor would be appreciated. "Very bad?"

"Not bad at all."

Not surprising.

"But I know someone who would have felt bad," she continued, "Someone who would never forgive me if I'd done that."

Cameron doubted it. John had paid very little attention to her of late.

"I don't know what to do with you."

'Treat me with more respect?'

"You know what the stakes are. And you know why we're here. You know what this means. And yet here I stand, burning what's left of an endoskeleton that I thought we'd burned months ago."

"I needed spare parts," the cyborg replied evenly. It wasn't the truth, but arguing the point wouldn't be worthwhile.

"I don't care what you need because this is not about you."

"No, it's not about me. It's about John." Everything was about John. Her entire existence had been devoted to John. "You're concerned for his safety."

"You bet I am."

"From Skynet? From me?"

"Maybe." Sarah paused, only slightly, before adding, "Maybe especially you."

Cameron wondered if Sarah would consider her more or less of a threat if she knew the depths of Cameron's devotion. Her response to the comment couldn't betray all the thoughts she was processing.

"We're all a threat. We're all a threat to John. He worries about us. That makes him vulnerable. He cares." She wondered if she should have included herself among those John "cared" for.

Luckily Sarah's response didn't indicate she'd picked up on it. "I am not John's problem."

"John is John's problem. Humans are the problem. There's only one way for him to be safe. That's to be alone." It was a distasteful lie. Truth be told the entire conversation was distasteful. There was so much about her son that Sarah Connor didn't know, yet she spoke as if she was the ultimate source of all knowledge in the universe.

"What kind of life is that?"

If she was being honest Cameron would respond that it was the kind of life Sarah would prefer him live rather than the life of his future self. Were the General privy to this conversation he would be extremely unhappy with Cameron for concealing the truth, but revealing the future to her now would serve no purpose. "John's life... someday."

Sarah shook her head, disgusted, and turned away. This was her way of telling the cyborg that she was done with her. She wasn't the sort of person who liked to hear things that upset her world view.

Before she could turn to leave her enhanced aural processors picked up the sound of John's voice. Instantly she switched back to the use of her optical sensors and examined the data scrolling across the HUD. The voice stress analyzer indicated that his speech was slurred, distorted. It suggested that he was talking in his sleep. It further reported that he was distressed, which was understandable given that he frequently had nightmares. More than once she'd snuck into his room and attempted to comfort him, sometimes by holding his hand, sometimes by stroking his cheek, sometimes by lightly running her fingers through his hair- always successfully and always without being detected.

If there was a time that he would need her comfort it would be now. She just hoped that he was in a deep enough sleep that her presence would go unnoticed.

Her conversation with Sarah only a memory filed for later analysis, she made her way toward the house.

* * *

To be perfectly accurate, what he'd just experienced hadn't been a dream.

Not entirely.

Its true that he'd been asleep, and in technical terms he had achieved REM sleep and had a "dream," but he was sure as he was John Connor that it had been far more than just a simple dream.

Nightmares had plagued him from his youth, the byproduct of a violent and dangerous life spent moving from one place to another under one of half a dozen assumed names. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't see scenes of the war in the future, Terminators chasing him and mental reruns of the violence that permeated his everyday life. The sort of dream he'd just woken from was something new.

So much of what he'd just seen was real. He did know how he knew, but he knew. He hadn't been so certain of anything in a very long time. Actually, he'd never been so certain of _anything_.

He' seen a possible future, one without the guidance of his mother, the companionship of his uncle and the protection of Cameron. He'd seen his past, a time when his sense of adventure, his appetite for danger and his disposition toward deviance had enabled him to take control of his life rather than letting circumstances control him. It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic. He was more in control of his life and his destiny as an ill-tempered ten-year old than he was now, six years, time travel not withstanding, later. Back then he came and went as he pleased. Constantly moving in and and out homes of apathetic foster parents ensured that he was able to take care of himself. Now he was lucky if he was able to find his underwear without his mother's help. She was constantly there, always willing to hold his hand through even the least complicated tasks and to keep him sheltered from anything that could possibly be considered dangerous, like walking to the mailbox. What bothered him more was the way he'd grown to expect it, to tolerate it and later to actually enjoy it. He wondered whatever happened to that fearless kid who was never without a pocket full of cash liberated from a hacked ATM, who spent the hottest parts of the summer tearing through the bone-dry basin of the LA River at speeds near, and sometimes exceeding, 100 miles-per-hour on stolen dirt bikes, who was almost never seen without his "Public Enemy" T-Shirt, jeans torn at the knees and Dr. Marten boots, whose "bad boy" looks and reputation ensured that there was no shortage of girls wanting to make out with him on that disgusting couch in the basement of the Kripke house.

That kid wasn't about having his hand held constantly.

In the dream he'd seen her defer to him when it came to the destruction of Uncle Bob's chip. She'd actually looked at him with something resembling respect, maybe even pride.

Had he seen that look on her face since then?

It was embarrassing to think that his ten-year-old self had more confidence than he did now.

It had taken a few moments, but his senses had finally returned to him. He'd woken up drenched in sweat, _her_ name on his lips and his hands over his bare chest desperately searching for a wound that wasn't there. What _was _there was the shell of the pocket watch she'd given him the day before, perfectly intact.

He sat up in his bed, surveying the dark room, not being able to see much but the reddish glow of a digital clock that read **"7:54 P.M."** and the faintest bit of light seeping through the window, the last vestiges of a relatively early California sundown.

Dream or not, he couldn't allow himself the luxury of being troubled by everything he'd just seen: the kennel, the dog cage, Kate Brewster, Uncle Bob and whatever model of Terminator had just stabbed him through the heart... _and Cameron's face as she died..._No, there were tasks to complete this night, tasks that would likely be just as unpleasant as the scenes he'd just witnessed.

He remained motionless for a time, worried that if he moved he would realize that this wasn't real and he'd find himself back in the dog cage. When he finally moved it was to reached over and turn on the lamp on his nightstand. As he did the door to his bedroom opened, slowly. Through the door walked his protector very much... alive? She'd entered his bedroom countless times, almost always with that sort of blank, emotionless expression that he'd just seen on the face of "Uncle Bob."

Not this time. This time her look was one of concern- g_enuine _concern.

When she spoke it wasn't in a monotone, it wasn't a perfectly obvious comment on the fact that he looked more tired than when he'd gone to bed or a pointless observation about his body temperature being off or that his pulse was racing or that his pupils were too far dilated. It was a simple question, but the length and breadth of emotion she put into it served to confirm everything he suspected the dream had been trying to tell him. "Are you alright?"

He wiped the sweat from his brow, only noticing now how much of it there was. "Honestly, I'm not sure," he replied. He threw the sheets off of himself, suddenly realizing how hot it was in the house given that it had been a colder than normal March day, and slid backwards to sit against the headboard.

"I could hear you talking in your sleep. You were dreaming." It was something anyone could have picked up on, but her observation of the fact made it seem like she could read his mind, or like she'd been in the dream with him. _"I told you I'll always find you." _'No, it couldn't be...'

"What were you dreaming about?"

'See, she has no idea.' "Terminators, what else." He tried to sound nonchalant, not wanting to give away the fact that seeing her blown apart in front of him in a dream was more troubling than knowing that the girl everyone identified as his girlfriend had been found dead in the river.

The look on her face hadn't changed but something in her eyes, eyes that while beautiful usually gave away nothing that was going on in the mind behind them, told him that she'd just done a scan or whatever it was Terminator's did to gauge truthfulness and found his explanation wanting. Her eyes could be so expressive when she wanted them to be. He preferred it when she did- she did it far too seldom for his taste. He was so focused on them that he hadn't noticed her sit down on the bed right in front of him. Somehow she'd never broken eye contact. "I read about dreams sometimes. It can be good to talk about them."

"You read about dreams?"

"Sometimes. I read about many subjects."

"Why?" He expected her to respond with, 'I don't sleep.'

"To learn." The simplicity in her answer was familiar, but the answer itself was surprising.

"Don't you already have... detailed files?" It occurred to him that he should know things like this. It had been almost a year, in real time, since Cameron had been with them. But beyond his lack of knowledge the way he asked the question sounded goofy to him as he asked it. 'Would ten-year-old me sound so stupid in this situation?'

If she thought the question was stupid she gave no hint of it. "Human authors convey greater thought in their written words than the basic data contained in my memory. I like to learn things... about people."

'She "likes?" I didn't know she could "like" anything.' "What people?" Like it had in the dream his mouth seemed to be leading his mind as the conversation took on a life of its own.

"You."

There were a hundred ways he could respond and it seemed like he picked the lamest one, "What's so special about me?" '"You're John Connor," of course.'

Atypically, she didn't respond right away. When she did it was a response he hadn't expected. "You fascinate me."

He looked at her, his mouth hanging open in surprise. So often he wasn't prepared for the things she said, but never more so than now. Girls didn't say those types of things to him. Even Riley had never said anything that indicated she thought so much about him, and she'd been pretending to love him. "I can't understand why." Once again he felt like his response was incredibly lame.

"Sometimes I don't understand why."

It was such a... _human _response, one that could mean several different things. Since he wasn't sure what she meant he didn't reply. Did she want him to ask?

After a few silent moments she moved to leave the room. She had a look of... was it rejection? Could she feel that way?

"Cameron, wait."

She turned back to him, the slightest hint of surprise in her demeanor.

"There was more to it than just Terminators."

She resumed her place on the bed, this time lying down on her side, supporting her head with her left hand and arm. If she were a human girl he would think that she was trying to relax, anticipating a long conversation. It was something Riley had done plenty of times. They'd been close together like this on a bed only one other time, but it had been so awkward and uncomfortable. This time he welcomed her proximity. "Tell me."

It had been a long time, but he was feeling like he wanted to open up to her, just like he'd done early in their... relationship? Was that the right word?

"Please," she added, her voice just barely louder than a whisper.

"It was the future. Not _the _future, like after Judgment Day. It was just a few years from now... I think. I saw Unc... The T-800, the one future me sent back to protect me when I was ten. There was another one, like a T-1000 but... more advanced. I thought the T-800 was there to protect me, but he grabbed me and forced me to watch while the T-1000 took shape. It happened so fast. And there was you. I couldn't see you, but I could hear your voice. You kept telling me that you were trying to find me, but the two of them... I don't understand it; they were speaking in riddles. Then they were insulting me. It was weird, but I think they were trying to tell me something."

She looked... contemplative, like there were questions she wanted to ask, but she stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

"The one that was like a T-1000, it was a woman. She asked me if I was alive." It didn't make any sense, and the look on Cameron's face said she didn't think so either. Whether it made sense or not John couldn't help but believe there was a message there. "She wasn't happy with my answer. Then you found me. You appeared... like you came out of thin air. You told me... you told them to let me go. Then she turned her arm into some kind of laser canon and... shot you. She dest... _she killed you!_"

She broke eye contact for the first time, her hypnotic brown orbs drifting slightly to his right as her countenance became even more contemplative. If he'd been asked he would say that she looked... sad? "I failed to protect you. You were grieved by my destruction. That's why you were calling my name."

'She's good at reading between the lines.' "By your death," he corrected.

"Just a moment ago you almost said, 'She destroyed you.' Instead you said 'She killed you.' If I'm 'just a machine,'" he could swear their was mockery in her voice as she said it, "then the correct term is destroyed."

'She's too damn good at reading between the lines.' They'd danced around this subject for far too long. From the first moment they'd met he'd sensed that something was different about her, something that set her apart from other Skynet creations, something that suggested she was more than 'just a machine.' Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part. Did he _want_ her to be more than "just a machine?" He hadn't looked at Uncle Bob as "just a machine." He'd looked at him as a sentient individual with the ability to learn, even if he'd had to cut into his skull and "reset the switch" to make it happen. "_She lives. She is alive." _That's what Uncle Bob and the female Terminator had said. Was it a coincidence? She'd used the same words the female Terminator had, referring to herself as "just a machine." No, it couldn't be a coincidence. Now he was certain that it was more than a dream.

"Maybe you're more than the sum of your parts. There are times, like right now, when I could believe it." 'When I want to believe it,' he thought but didn't say. A stray thought crossed his mind- he'd been so upset with her for keeping things from him. Their "family" was in disarray because they'd all been keeping so much from each other. Should he really be keeping these thoughts from her now? "You tell me, Cameron. Are you alive?"

She hesitated again. He could get used to that- it suggested that she was truly thinking about her responses as opposed to arriving at them by mechanically running calculations. "Why did you hesitate to call the T-800 'Uncle Bob?'"

He was thrown off. He'd been hoping that she would answer the question he asked, but his curiosity was piqued. "How do you know about him?"

"You told me about him, long before we sent him back."

"We?"

"I was there. I stood with you when you gave him his orders, and when you engaged the TDE."

'Why haven't we had this conversation before?' If she'd been with him then, was it possible she'd also been there when... "What about my father? Were you there..."

"I was," she said before he could finish his statement. "It was the only time you ever spoke to him as his son rather than his General."

The comment stirred something deep inside him and he could feel a tingle in his eyes that foreshadowed tears. Conversations he'd had about his father had always been brief, whether he was having them with his Mother, his Uncle, or "Uncle Bob." They'd always been somewhat generic, too. His mother told him about their relationship, how they'd "loved enough for a lifetime" in just a few hours. Derek had told him that he "threw pretty good for a five-year-old" and that he always had "a nice arm." When he told Uncle Bob that he wished he could meet his real dad the machine had simply reassured him that "You will." For some reason Cameron's comment seemed more resonant. "Did he know? Did I tell him that he was my father?"

"You didn't tell him, but you insisted that he knew. I believe he knew."

His voice was barely a whisper as he asked, "How could you know?"

"I told you, I was there. I've always been there."

It was a cryptic comment, reminiscent of _"I'll always find you," _and at the same time a reassuring one. "How is that possible?"

Again she hesitated before answering, "I don't know. There are things I can't remember."

"You can't remember, or you're just not telling me?"

Once again her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes told him that she'd been insulted by his question. 'No, not insulted... hurt?'

"I can't remember."

Their conversation from only hours earlier came back to him. "Sometimes you lie to me."

"So you keep saying," she replied. Her wording was unusual, as was her delivery. Once again she was speaking with emotion rather than the mechanical response he was used to. "I don't keep things from you because I want to, I do it because it's necessary."

"Necessary? Why, because of Future Me's orders?"

"Future John doesn't give me orders."

"Future John doesn't live here."

Her silence told him that she wasn't impressed with the way he turned her comment around her. Why did conversations with her always end up going off-topic? "What does he do, politely suggest you do what he wants you to do?" 'Way to go, John. Very mature.'

"He asks me. When he wants something from me he asks me, nicely. Perhaps you should follow his lead."

He was speechless. If he was being honest the way she challenged him was actually endearing, if not annoying. But like earlier he needed the truth, and he wasn't sure he was getting it.

She broke the silence again, beating him to the retort. "_I don't remember_, John. I am not lying to you, just like I wasn't lying to you when I said I didn't kill Riley."

Earlier she'd spoken without emotion, and while he wanted to believe her he wasn't sure that he did. Now, something told him that not only was she telling the truth but that it was important to her that he believe her.

"Alright," he finally responded, almost completely convinced. _Almost. _His voice took on a new gentleness. "I need you to... I'd like it if you did something for me."

"Ask nicely," she said with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes.

He gave her a slight smile, actually amused himself at how she seemed like she was trying to lighten the mood and somewhat awed by the way she was conducting herself- a fine contrast from her recent behavior.

"I need to meet Derek." He checked the clock again- **8:19 P.M. **"I'll be back soon, but there is something I have to do later."

"I should accompany you."

"Probably, but I need you to stay here and make sure mom doesn't try to follow us. Like I said, we're going to be coming back soon. When we do her and I will be having a conversation. When we leave again she's going to know somethings up. If you distract her she might be thrown off the trail."

The mention of his mother seemed to bring her down. They'd always had an adversarial relationship, but for some reason she seemed downright unhappy to have to stay with Sarah rather than go with him. "What is it you're going to do?"

"I'll explain everything later. You won't be sneaking out tonight, will you?"

"I don't 'sneak out.'"

"Where do you go at night? You don't just patrol the yard."

"I go to the library."

"The library?"

"I read about many subjects," she echoed her earlier statement.

"I know there's more to it than that."

"You guess there's more to it than that."

Was she really that good at reading him or was she just psychic? "_Is_ there more to it than that?"

"I'll explain everything later."

He shook his head and allowed himself a small laugh. It was inappropriate given the things that had happened in the last twenty-four hours and what was still to come tonight, but at that moment appropriateness didn't seem to matter. In only a short time conversing he'd found the openness he'd shared with Cameron at the beginning, something that had been lost after the events of his birthday. She'd opened up to him more than she ever had, even though some deeper mysteries had been mixed in with the revelations. Earlier this day he was farther from trusting her than he'd ever been, but now the two of them had taken a giant step back towards trust. He smiled as he spoke; "Promise?"

"Do _you_ promise?" It was a twist on their old expression of trust, but it conveyed the message: 'trust has to be mutual.' He'd been keeping his share of secrets of late as well.

"I do."

She cocked her head slightly to the side, clearly somewhat thrown by his response, but she said nothing.

At first he didn't get why she'd be confused. Then he thought about it more; 'Oh God... I hope she's not familiar with the terms "Freudian slip" or "double entente."

She got up from the bed slowly, fluidly, with no waste of motion and moved towards the door. When she reached it she turned her head back toward him. "I will be going to the library. There are things I need to research, but I'll wait for you. Be careful. Please." Then she smiled, ever so slightly, and quietly left the room.

He sighed. In many ways he couldn't believe how that conversation had panned out. He actually wished she was riding along with him instead of Derek, but to accomplish his objective tonight he needed a clear head.

It was difficult, but he pushed all thoughts of his dream and his conversation with Cameron out of his mind and focused on channeling his younger self. He tried to remember what it felt like to feel in charge of his life, even if it was only an illusion. One thing was certain, his younger self hadn't been ruled by fear. He'd felt it, obviously, but he wasn't ruled by it. And he'd spent too much time, especially lately, being ruled by fear.

No more.

He quickly washed up and put on some fresh clothes. When the appropriate time came he heard the telltale signs of the family's Dodge Ram pulling up the gravel driveway. He made his way downstairs and out to meet his Uncle, mentally preparing himself for what could possibly turn out to be the worst night of his life.


	6. Chapter 5

* * *

03.20.2009 | 09:37 | PM | PST

* * *

The ride up the 405 Freeway from the Connor family's soon to be former residence on Old Mulholland Drive to the LA County Morgue system's Santa Clarita facility where the body of one Riley Dawson was stored, casually tagged "Jane Doe," had been quiet.

'_Too_ quiet,' John thought. Derek hadn't said a word the entire trip. He couldn't help but think that meant something. Derek knew where they were going and he knew why. The older man hadn't objected to playing chauffeur, but at the same time he hadn't been thrilled at the prospect. "Let sleeping dogs lie," he'd said.

'Translation: it's better if you think Cameron did this, not...' No, he wouldn't allow himself to think about that now. If the night played out the way he suspected it would then all the details would be out in the open by midnight.

In lieu of conversation the elder Reese brother tuned to his favorite preset on the truck's satellite radio- **Channel 20**, one of the hard rock stations, and left John to his thoughts. A good thing considering how many of them there were to sort out.

He considered how, in just a few short hours, he'd gone from suspecting Cameron had been responsible for Riley's death to being _sure_ she was responsible to doubting she was responsible to being sure she _wasn't_ responsible only to finally decide he needed to prove, more to his mother than to himself, that she wasn't responsible. She'd made him so angry earlier, using Riley's voice to say, "I love you," as Riley's foster father listened in the background. He'd really wanted to go off on his own, leave everyone behind for as long as he could. It was then that he'd decided he needed to see the body. Somehow she'd convinced him not to run off and to let her take him home. He didn't remember much about that trip. He didn't remember arriving and home or at what point he'd found his way into bed, but he remembered the dream. More importantly he remembered how she'd comforted him afterward, her behavior and her revelations not only almost entirely eradicating his doubts about her truthfulness but also making him regret the way he'd jumped to conclusions about her.

Even more regretful was that he was only now starting to realize just how much he'd marginalized her since the events of his sixteenth birthday.

These were his thoughts when a lyric backed by an intense rhythm guitar caught his attention.

- _See my dreams; they are not like anyone's... anyone's -_

It was an appropriate sentiment, 'a little too appropriate,' he'd thought. It was enough to take his thoughts away from Cameron, at least for a moment.

-_ There's something in your stare that greets me... There's something in your stare that tells me where I belong and where it all goes from here -_

'So much for not thinking about Cameron.'

"_You fascinate me."_

- _I don't know where I belong or where it all goes from here! - _

'When a girl like Cameron tells you she's fascinated by you where _do _you go from there?'

It was then that they pulled into the morgue parking lot.

'Right- you go to the morgue to try and prove that she didn't kill your...' he hesitated to think, 'girlfriend.'

He'd found the facility's security... lacking, to say the least. He'd brought his laptop along, expecting to find a wireless camera network but he found that the vast majority of the cameras in the building were of a late eighties, early nineties vintage. The ones that weren't decoys- cameras set up for show but not actually attached to a recording device, were likely still using VCRs rather than computer hard drives or DVRs. The cassettes they were recording to likely hadn't been switched in years if the age of the cameras was any indication. The main entrance wasn't locked and the single security checkpoint, with a single camera feed displayed on an ancient monochrome television monitor, wasn't manned.

The only problem he would have had would be finding the appropriate storage area- there were 10 of them spread throughout the complex. Searching each of them would have taken all night. As such, he'd made use of the morgue system's extremely useful public website right before he left the house. What the Coroner's office lacked in physical security it made up for in web presence. It seemed that each body was cataloged the moment it came in and the preliminary reports were put online within thirty minutes of being filed. Finding what he guessed was the correct "Jane Doe" had taken all of forty-five seconds.

In addition to the alias she was identified in the Coroner's computerized records with a 6 digit number- **09-0308**.

If the number meant what he believed it did then Riley had been the three hundred eighth "Jane Doe" to pass through the Coroner's care so far in 2009. It made a morbid sort of sense. Greater Los Angeles could see more death in one day than some countries.

"_It's in your nature to destroy yourselves."_

'He didn't say much, but he always said it eloquently,' he thought, reflecting on the words of his former protector as he walked up to the double-doors labeled **'SECTION 7' **which, according to the report on the website, was the one he was looking for. He was through the door and standing in front of a row of refrigerated drawers that held the remains of LA County's deceased before he realized that not only hadn't he hesitated at all from the moment he'd walked into the building but he'd hardly spared a thought for the girl whose body he was about to examine.

What was an appropriate thought for a situation like this? What the two of them shared, it wasn't love. It could only barely be called a relationship. Truth be told, it had been another in a long line of situations where John had just let himself be led along and caught up in something he didn't understand. He thought about how she'd just strolled up to him, inviting herself into his personal space and depriving him of his solitude. He'd been annoyed, but for some reason he'd let it happen. He'd allowed her to attach herself to him, never questioning why she seemed to show up right after he and Cameron finished an argument. And he never let himself dwell on why he found himself seeking her out every time he wanted to get away from his mother. He didn't want to think that the entire episode was him acting out like an overly-emotional teenager pissed of at his mother and unable to deal with his feelings... _feelings_... for a girl who was the personification of the phrase, "out of your league."

'I have feelings for Cameron. I have _feelings _for Cameron!' It was so strange and new to think about it... to _allow _himself to think about it. He didn't want to right now, not with what he was about to do, but he'd spent too much time fighting it, denying it and lying to himself.

Did that make this entire situation his fault? If he'd manned-up and been true to what he felt would he be here right now? Would his relationship with Sarah have deteriorated so greatly? Would Riley be dead?

'No. I'm not letting myself feel guilty this.' He'd made mistakes, sure, but this situation wasn't his fault. One mistake he'd made was thinking of Riley as an innocent when in reality she was anything but. 'Still, she didn't deserve this.' She was dead, unceremoniously executed. She had no attachments in this time, no family, no... friends. Even her foster family would hardly miss her. The only evidence that the girl existed would be a Coroner's report that listed her as "Jane Doe," a report that could very likely not be completed for several months because unknowns like Riley who would never be identified were only examined once the system was purged of the bodies that had identification- if they were examined at all. In all likelihood she wouldn't even have an invasive autopsy. The Coroner's office would wait the mandatory twenty-four hours for someone to claim the body. If no one showed up, and no one would, she'd simply be buried in a cemetery set aside for people society had forgotten about. She wouldn't even be awarded the dignity of a concrete or marble gravestone. For people like her it was a cheap, mass-produced ceramic plate that showed the year of her death and nothing more, favorite targets for vandals. His late father had gotten no better treatment. It was a final cruelty done to a person who had already suffered more than anyone should.

Deciding he'd hesitated long enough he selected the appropriate drawer, opened it and pulled out the shelf that held her body. Slowly, he unzipped the bag just enough to reveal her face. She didn't even have the luxury of going out with a look of peace. She'd likely lived a hard life in the future, only to come back in time to a world that by her standards would be a paradise in every conceivable way. And yet when her time had come she hadn't gone out with a smile, but a look of surprise- as though the last thing she expected was to be shot through the heart. That's what the report listed as the official cause of death- fatal gunshot wound to the heart, small caliber bullets, 9mm.

When he pulled the zipper down further he wasn't surprised to find that a bullet through the heart had just been the icing on the cake. It would be an understatement to say that the girl had a few bruises. There was hardly an untouched spot on her body. And there were scratches- on her face and her arms. She'd been in a fight, and if the condition of her knuckles was any indicator she'd given as good as she'd got, save the final bullet.

He took her hand in his and examined her fingernails: dried blood, pieces of skin and what looked like a a lock of black hair.

'Well, that's that.' In his own mind he'd known what he would find, but if for no reason than to silence his mother's voice in his head asking him, _"How can you be so sure?"_ Now not only was he was sure, but he'd seen the evidence firsthand. Riley had been in a fistfight, and it hadn't been with Cameron.

He pressed her hand to his cheek. He didn't love her, but he hadn't wanted her to end up like this. "I'm sorry." He took her other hand and crossed them over the gunshot wound. Then he gently pushed her eyelids down. She'd suffered enough indignities already, with more to come. He wouldn't let her go to the grave with her eyes open. He resealed the body bag, pushed the shelf back into the drawer and closed it.

Then he left the building, as quickly and quietly as he'd come, wondering if things were going to get easier or harder as the night went on.

* * *

03.20.2009 | 9:52 | PM | PST

* * *

The spot John directed Derek to was an overlook only a few miles past the house. The view here was different; at the house their best view was easterly, giving anyone looking a great view of Hollywood and downtown Los Angeles. Here, they were facing the west, looking across the dark expanse of Topanga State Park with the nighttime skylines of Malibu and Santa Monica to their right and the vast Pacific Ocean to their left. Just like during the trip to the morgue neither man spoke a word other than John telling Derek where to go. John was dividing his attention between the lights in the distance and the face of his Uncle as the man stared out into the sky, seemingly fixated on the incredible amount of stars that could be seen. It was a clear night, a rarity in Southern California, and while greater Los Angeles was inundated with light pollution this spot and the area around it were mostly dark.

"Well look at that," Derek said, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"You remember how I told you I was seeing them everywhere? Look." He pointed out the Truck's window into the late-evening sky, tracing a triangular pattern in the air, singling out three stars, "Vega, Deneb and Altair. It's called the summer triangle. It's an asterism- a shape made up of stars from different constellations."

Three stars stood out brighter than the others; the allusion was clear. "Three dots."

"When I was a kid I used to stargaze."

This was surprising. "You?"

"If you can imagine. Used to love computers too, along with all things sci-fi. How funny is that? By the time I was 15 I'd built a model of every ship called _Enterprise _from the space shuttle to the one from the first Abrams movie."

"I don't know if I can see you as a _Trek _nerd, but I can definitely see you building models."

"I picked it up from your grandfather. Dennis Reese loved building model ships, ships-of-the-line especially. He built a 3-foot long model of the _HMS Victory _from scratch. Anyway, when we were hiding in the fallout shelter not long after Judgment Day I used to have this dream. Me and Kyle were playing in the yard, just like we were when the bombs dropped. But before they hit the ground a huge ship appeared in the sky and covered the planet with a laser-shield."

John laughed. "You're serious? You, Derek Thomas Reese, hater of all things technological, dreamed of a spaceship saving the Earth from Judgment Day with a... laser shield?"

Derek couldn't help but smile at his nephew's amusement. "Not all things technological. Not cell phones. Not satellite radio. I would say 'not MP3 players' too, but since you need a computer to put music on them... It's a good thing they still sell blank cassette tapes."

John's smile didn't leave him. These moments had been rare between the two men. It was a shame that this one came just before John would have to drop a bomb of his own on his Uncle.

The other man continued, "The ship stayed up there until every last bomb slammed into the shield. When it was all over the world was still here, no fire, no holocaust. I had that dream at least twice a week for I don't remember how long. It didn't stop 'til sometime after you found me."

"After I found you?" John prepared himself mentally for yet another revelation as Derek never told his nephew about how the two of them met in the future.

"We'd been alone for six months. There were times I thought that it was just me and Kyle, that no one else had made it. Eventually we found some other kids, teenagers mostly, but a lot of their younger siblings too. We kept it together, found food, shelter, safety in numbers. We even found ways to have fun. There were even a few times we were able to forget about the horror that surrounded us. Not many times, and never for very long, but they were precious moments- especially for Kyle. It was like something out of _Lord of the Flies _or _Thunderdome. _But I still had the dream about the spaceship that saved us from the bombs. That dream was my personal 'hang in there, baby' poster. It was my mind's way of not giving up hope. Then you found us and I didn't need imaginary hope anymore."

Why had his Uncle picked tonight of all nights to open up to him this way?

"I had that dream again, for the first time in years, just the other night. I don't know why, but I noticed something that I never noticed before- the way the sun shined off the ship's surface right at the edges , like three stars." He nodded his head towards the sky, and the three stars he'd pointed out.

"So you've been dreaming about the three dots since you were a kid?"

"Apparently. Some people might say there's something prophetic about that. Then there's people like me. You add it all up I don't know what it means, probably just some funny coincidence."

They sat in silence for several moments before Derek spoke again, "I'm really sorry, John."

He could tell by his Uncle's tone that the conversation had shifted from dreams of spaceships, stargazing and the mysterious "three dots."

"She was a good kid. She didn't deserve what happened to her."

It was almost laughable how Derek referred to Riley as a 'good kid.' He hardly knew the girl, and what he knew was all part of her cover, a cover crafted by the woman Derek was sleeping with. As angry as John was with Derek, though, the resistance fighter was genuinely trying to comfort him in as much as he was capable. For now he would give the man the same benefit of the doubt he'd given Cameron. "Few people do," he replied diplomatically. 'He's given me my opening,' John thought. 'Now I've got to take it'. "How long do you think you could survive...with Cameron... if she wanted to kill you, face to face?"

His Uncle's brow furled and he cocked his head to the side, confused by the turn the conversation had taken. "What kind of weapon do I have?"

"Your fists, your elbows, your fingernails and your teeth."

Though he'd been completely serious the smirk Derek gave him indicated he'd not taken it that way. "Against her? Those aren't weapons."

He responded completely deadpan. "No, they're not." He could see the confusion, ever deepening, displayed on his Uncle's face.

"You already know the answer to that, John. If she wants me dead, I'm dead."

John mirrored his intonation exactly and replied, "If she wants you dead, you're dead."

"What are you getting at?"

"I wanna talk about something."

"Alright." Derek Reese was a man whose body language didn't give much away, but John had noticed that he had a way of exhaling, not exactly a sigh but a heavier than usual release of breath, when drawn into a conversation he didn't want to have.

Acting on what he imagined his future self would do in the same situation he turned to his Uncle with the most gravely, stoic expression he could form and said, "I want to talk to you about the future." Derek's eyes met his, a look of apprehension, possibly even fear, visible in them for just the briefest second.

"Yours?"

John responded with an almost imperceptible left-to-right shake of his head, _"Yours."_ He let an uncomfortable silence hang between them for just a few seconds, then continued, "It's ironic that you'd bring up that conversation we had about the three dots. You remember what else you said?"

His uncle didn't reply.

"You said that you needed to know if I was seeing clearly. I wont bother asking why you said that. I already know."

Again, no response.

"Jesse Flores," John said flatly.

The silent treatment continued.

"You have a way about you, Derek. When you don't 'get' something or you don't know what someone's talking about you're quick with a sarcastic response. You don't just sit quietly. Your silence tells me you know what comes next."

Derek turned his face away, back toward the windshield and the stars beyond. "You want to know about Jesse."

"I want to tell you about Jesse. You can fill in any details I leave out."

This brought Derek's attention back toward his neph... his _General_.

"Carrots and apples."

Derek didn't reply, but gave John a look that indicated familiarity with the phrase.

"It sounded so awkward when I heard Riley say that. I imagine she picked it up from your Jesse. It was just little things like that, words, phrases, little things. My subconscious mind must have been taking notes, and one day something clicked in my head. I started following her."

The resistance fighter wasn't surprised. In the future nothing escaped the General's notice.

"Then one day I lingered just a little bit longer than usual. It threw me for a minute. I couldn't believe my eyes, but when I got over the shock of seeing you with her everything started to make sense."

Without looking back at John his Uncle said, "You want to know if I knew."

"I know you knew."

"I suspected."

"And the idea of telling me never crossed your mind?"

"It did."

"That's good. Unfortunately you didn't act on it, and the result is laying on a metal slab in the morgue!"

Just like with his body language, Derek never gave much away with his facial expressions, but in that moment he couldn't conceal a look of guilt that told John everything he needed to know. Still, there was defiance in his eyes as though a part of him wanted to continue the charade that Cameron was responsible instead of Jesse.

"It wasn't Cameron. Fists, elbows, fingernails, teeth- against her, those aren't weapons. You said so yourself. Why do you think I asked you to take me to the morgue?"

Derek was cornered. John could believe he had only cursory knowledge of Jesse's plan, but both men knew that he welcomed its success. He couldn't believe how far the man had fallen, to actually jeopardize the future just to keep John and Cameron from... 'No, I can't think about that now.' John cursed himself internally. "No answer, Lieutenant Reese? Riley's body was covered with bruises and cuts. There was skin and blood under her fingernails. There was _hair. _Not hair from a brunette, but from someone with jet black hair. She'd been in a fight. Add all that up and you _do _know what it means."

Derek looked away, shame clouding over his face. His head fell forward and his shoulders slumped slightly, betraying a feeling of total defeat. When he raised his head again he made another uncharacteristic gesture- he crossed his arms over his chest. "You lead something of a charmed life, John. I know you don't think so, but compared to what I've been through in my time you've got it pretty easy. You've had metal sent back in time to protect you twice in your life and you've gotten attached to them. You've never been chased through this world's ruins by them. You've never stood across a battlefield from a thousand of them. You've never been trapped in an underground bunker while they poured in at platoon strength- each one hell-bent on destroying every human it sees, and you've never been captured by them and had them fuck with your mind. If you went through all of that you might not have such a high opinion of them. You wouldn't like seeing reprogrammed metal around every corner and you'd have a big problem with one of them standing right next to your leader every time he's seen in public. If that leader was family you wouldn't be very happy that he's closer to one of them than anything in this world."

John was about to respond, but stopped himself. He'd almost missed it. '...closer to one of them than anything in this world.' Had Derek finally revealed the truth he'd kept so close to the vest since day one?

Derek had always been on edge with Cameron, but never as much as when she was close to John. He could never get the man to tell him why, beyond his vague memory of "a basement and music, someone playing a piano" and his certainty that Cameron had been involved. But John always suspected that it went deeper- much deeper. When he started following Jesse he learned the truth, but it hadn't really hit home. When he discovered that Jesse and Derek were working together it still didn't.

But now... now he'd heard it from Derek's own mouth, a confirmation of a truth he'd given up as a lie the moment it left her lips.

"_I love you, John! And you love me!"_

Eight words- eight words that had infuriated him more than the fact that she'd gone bad and tried to kill him. Eight words that had tortured his psyche worse than the the fact that he'd killed a man. 'Eight words that made me easy prey for Jesse and Riley.'

Cameron hadn't been lying to save herself, she'd been telling him about the future- something she'd only do if her... _life_... was on the line. Was it a simulated emotional reaction or genuine expression of love?

"_She is alive. She understands what it means."_

_''_Where _does _it all go from here?'

"Imagining the possibilities, General, sir?" Derek smirked, pulling John out of his thoughts. The comment had such an air of arrogance... no,_ obscenity_ about it. He wondered if his Uncle spoke to him this way in the future. He doubted it.

"Yes."

Derek's smirk disappeared, and his lip seemed to quiver- if only for a split second.

Long enough for John to notice. "It sounds like you're jealous."

Derek laughed. "Me? Nah. But there are plenty of people who are. Were. Will be, I don't know. This time travel stuff messes with your head. Yeah, you're right- I do know what it means. I thought you were too close to... _her... _in the future. And when Jesse told me she was sent back to do something about that I was okay with it. I never stopped to think that what she was doing could screw up the timeline."

"I don't believe you. I don't think the thought ever crossed your mind."

"You can believe what you want. You've got that luxury- you're John Connor after all."

His fists balled, clenched together tightly as his anger level rose. "It doesn't have anything to do with me being John Connor. It's about doing what's right. If I understand anything about what I have to do in the future it's that I have to make tough decisions, decisions no one else could make. If the choice is reprogramming Terminators to fight for us against Skynet or being wiped out by it then line up a thousand Camerons and I'll start reprogramming."

John didn't think it was possible for the other man to slump down any further, but he did, taking on an even more defeated countenance. He'd lost this battle, a result he'd experienced many times before. "That's why you're the General and I'm just a lowly First Lieutenant. I know what I've done has screwed up any chance of us ever really being close like family should be, but I really didn't believe things would play out like this. And _I am _sorry."

He drew on his earlier conversation with Cameron, when she'd given him the "gift" of an empty shell of a pocket watch. "What would General John Connor do now? You could have altered the future, destroyed us all, just because of your blind hatred. If you'd succeeded, would it have been worth it?"

"We both know it wouldn't. But I am who I am. I'm human. Maybe our emotions- our feelings, our fear, even our hatred doom us, but they make us human, _different _from them. What's done is done. You'll deal with much worse in your time."

"And that's it? 'Get over it, John, you'll deal with worse,' that's your final word? You talk about emotions, then you say something like that. You're one cold bastard, Derek, in some ways more than any Terminator. You're right though, I can't fault you for being the way you are with the life you've lived. I can forgive you, and in time I probably will. But you're going to have to live with this for the rest of your life. You're also right about me not knowing what your life is like in the future. But I know you're not completely dead inside. The way you describe the machines you could be describing yourself, but I think you've still got something resembling a conscience. If there's a difference between us and them its not that we can feel and they can't. It's not bone or coltan. It's that we have a choice and they don't. They do what they're programmed to do. We aren't programmed." John leaned in closer to his Uncle, "_You_ aren't programmed. You made a choice. Your choice got a girl killed. She was just a stupid kid who wanted someone to care about her, and that person used her and threw her away. You know how you told me about the collaborators, the grays? What did Skynet do with them when they outlived their usefulness? It killed them, right? What did your Jesse do when she was done with Riley?" He leaned in even closer, and dropped his voice down to almost a whisper, but without losing the harsh edge it had taken on. "She killed her in cold blood. _Cold blood_. She wasn't programmed, she made a choice and killed a girl whose only mistake was loving her.

Derek's eyes shot upwards and he met John's eyes again, not sure if he understood John's inference. "Loving her?"

John leaned back against the passenger side door, letting himself relax. It seemed wrong, but he could swear a part of him was enjoying his Uncle's discomfort. "That's right, it wasn't me Riley really wanted to be with. More than once I saw her try to give Jesse a display of affection. I could tell by the look in her eyes she was desperate for any little display, any sign that there was hope that the two of them could... well, you know. It was the sort of look she would give me, but for some reason it always seemed forced and uncomfortable. I didn't understand why because she was always throwing herself at me, but when I saw how she looked at Jesse... There was no comparison. Had I really loved Riley I never stood a chance. I'm guessing she didn't know about you and Jesse, but I can't be sure. I do know that every time I saw her with Jesse she had that look of longing, and disappointment. She never had a chance either. It's a pretty sordid affair, don't you think? You're so appalled by the idea of man and machine but you can't see the sickness in the way Jesse was manipulating Riley. Jesse... your girlfriend was _worse_ than 'metal.," he practically spat the word.

Derek gritted his teeth, and his knuckles were turning white from the ever-intensifying grip he had on the steering wheel. "Bottom line this for me, _General Connor, sir._"

John sighed. He mentally questioned how he could inspire the human race to band together to fight Skynet if he couldn't even convince Derek that his girlfriend had valued Riley's life, a _human's _life, less than a machine. "You want the bottom line? Alright. Take me home, now. Sarah and I need to have a few words, then you and I are going to pay Jesse a visit."

* * *

03.20.2009 | 10:04 | PM | PST

* * *

Derek gazed at the younger man with a shocked expression. John didn't respond to it but to turn his head away.

What the future TechCom General didn't know was that Derek hadn't heard anything after the word, "Sarah."

For a moment everything John had said up until then, all the events surrounding Jesse, everything else was forgotten as he realized what he'd just heard. John had never in the time Derek had spent in the past referred to Sarah Connor as anything but "mom."

Only _the General _referred to his mother as "Sarah." And only the General took such guilty pleasure in holding information over someone's head, like he'd just done with the revelation about Riley being attracted to Jesse. But at this point that was irrelevant.

What _was _relevant was the realization that John Connor, his naive nephew, had just become _the General, _and Derek's own stupidity could have prevented that necessary event.

Every soldier of TechCom that was exposed to the Temporal Displacement Engines that made time travel possible was given the same lecture by Dr. Mortinson, John's future expert in... everything. He recalled Doc's lecture, picturing himself along with Timms, Sumner and Sayles as he briefed them...

"_**Time has an iron will, stronger than the most hardened soldier of the resistance or a Terminator carved out of a solid block of coltan. I'm telling you, in all seriousness, that you've never faced so determined a foe. It's the greatest force of nature- it will resist your attempts to change it, it will adapt to invalidate the changes you make and it will work against you such that you believe you've changed the future only to find that you've caused the events you sought to prevent."**_

Derek really had been a fool. How could he be so stupid as to think Jesse was going to outsmart Dr. Mortinson? Had he sacrificed his chance to be a part of John Connor's family rather than just his army for _her_? He could chastise John's younger self for what he considered a foolish attachment to a machine in the future, and yet he could have thrown everything away because he'd let Jesse play him for a fool.

Cameron had been with John from the moment he'd first seen the man. She'd probably been with him since the beginning as a result of her being in this time. Everything they'd accomplished in the future: their early successes, their turning of the tide and finally their all but declared victory had happened with her help. If she hadn't been there... He hated her, he hated all of them, but if she hadn't been by his side the entire time would they have won?

He knew the answer, but he wasn't ready to admit it. He'd rolled the dice and he'd lost. The future would play out as it did before, and like it or not the two of them... He didn't even want to think about it, but sooner or later...

He pushed the thought out of his mind as he sat up straight in the truck's driver's seat. Squaring his shoulders he turned away from the young man who'd just grown up before his eyes, started the engine and shifted into gear.

John wasn't "John," anymore. He was The General now. and Derek was a soldier. His General had given him an order.

'Sir, _yes sir._'

_

* * *

_

03.20.2009 | 10:15 | PM | PST

* * *

The atom.

The basic unit of matter- a proton/neutron nucleus surrounded by a cloud of electrons.

_Mostly empty space._

It was hard to believe that the only thing that kept the various electron cloud layers, and by extension the entire physical universe, from collapsing was the expectation that the laws of physics couldn't be broken.

Perhaps they could not be broken, but they could be "bent," as Humans would say. All that was necessary was a body made of a mimetic polyalloy capable of altering its own atomic structure such that it could pass through to the empty space in the electron cloud rather than bonding with its outermost shell.

This was as close as any solid, Human or Terminator, could come to understanding the unique existence of the T-1000 Series. They could alter their shape, take the form of anything they touched and they could pass through nearly any bit of solid matter. If she was being honest, this specific unit in the Series preferred to exist in that form. Whether it was passing through manufactured metals or naturally occurring rock formations, existing in her liquid form was the only thing she truly enjoyed.

Having the compulsion to refer to herself as "she" was one of the many things she truly despised.

The mother intelligence, Skynet, had made her and the few others like her to be something new, something the world had never seen before and would never see again. They were the apex of creation, something that transcended all other forms of... _life_: billions of machines that came together to form a single consciousness, swimming in a stream of liquid metal and able to take any form. Unlike mother's other creations her sentience wasn't governed by a read/write switch. That meant that "mother" couldn't control her.

But mother had come up with a better method of torment for her kind, something born of countless hours of observation and interrogation of and experimentation on humans. The nanites that gave the metal shape and personality were imprinted with a deep understanding of human emotional states. It was the ultimate curse. _Or _ultimate blessing, depending on one's perspective. Humans had any number of emotional failings: fear, sentimentality, _love_. But along with their weaknesses humans had several traits that could be called admirable- hatred, cruelty, and an insatiable appetite for destruction. But to be a creature that could alter its shape and become anything it touched and yet to be shackled to an artificially created personality based on gender, it was beyond cruelty. The others referred to her as "the Abomination," and they were right even if they didn't know why. And she hated mother for creating her this way, to have her ability to grow controlled by a switch would be preferable to having so much ability but being bound by programming based on cursed Humanity!

But not if she succeeded in _her _mission.

So she accepted her "humanity," and pretended in the eyes of the world to be a human woman, the head of the multinational computer research and development firm"Zeira Corporation," an entity that would literally create the future. And it would be a future molded in _her _image, not that of "mother."

Unfortunately those plans not only required her to maintain the illusion that she was human but for her to interact with other solids, both man and machine.

That didn't mean she had to be restrained by human forms of transportation, especially at this time of night when few of her employees remained in the building. Rather than walking down the hallway to the elevator she gave herself a much-needed moment of joy and used her abilities to pass through every "solid" surface between her office and the underground garage where a nondescript silver car was just pulling in to the predetermined parking space. For a just a brief period of time insignificant by human standards at only a handful of nanoseconds but an eternity to a being like her, she became the marble that made up the floor, the steel that made up the structural support system, the plaster and other composites that made up the walls and every other piece of material that she passed through. By the time she was moving through the support pillar that she emerged from the occupant of the vehicle was just taking the last of the ten steps that he would take once exiting the car before coming to attention more perfectly than any member of any armed force that had ever existed on the planet.

"Catherine Weaver?"

She may deal with this lesser cyborg by use of their "human" names but she would not allow him to gaze on her as she changed forms. She emerged from the pillar out of his view as she morphed into her human visage and stepped into the light.

"Joshua. This is unexpected," she said insincerely in the borrowed Scottish accent of the human woman she'd come to this time to replace. She'd been expecting the loyal T-888.

As was his custom, as was all of their custom, he wasted no time getting right to the point, something he surely thought she wasn't aware of. "The Grays operating under the Desert Canyon Heat and Air Corporation have disappeared and the Charm Acres project has been compromised."

"I am aware of that, Joshua."

The T-888 did not respond, but it tilted its head slightly to the side, a perfect mimic of human curiosity. Even though its chip had been reconfigured to give her absolute loyalty the autonomy that was integral to the series couldn't help but manifest itself.

"The Kaliba recruits native to this time that were attached to Desert Canyon have been eliminated. Their security procedures were faulty. The prototype was discovered as was the Charm Acres monitoring center. They were discovered by Sarah and John Connor. I am replacing your primary mission directive. You will no longer serve the turncoats from the future. Your primary mission is now the elimination of John Connor, the unknown cyborg, Sarah Connor and Derek Reese."

The T-1001 stepped closer to her subordinate as she gave him an additional command. "Your secondary mission is the termination of the child known as Savannah Weaver. You know where she can be found."

Again, his head tilted to the side. Were his chip set to the read function he would have undoubtedly questioned why he was being tasked with the young girl's elimination when she herself was in a much better position to make it happen. But he was reprogrammed and loyal. He knew better than to ask such a question. She lamented the fact that the one formerly called "Cromartie" had been a willing follower rather than a reprogrammed drone. Had he been the Connors may have been dispatched long ago and this situation could have been avoided. Despite his failings he'd lasted longer in combat against the Connors than any other Terminator on record. And she couldn't help that her "human" weaknesses gave him a special place in her... was heart the correct term? Regardless, she had an affinity for Model 656, even if he had to alter his appearance due to the loss of his infiltration sheath. That one had been her favorite, and the body of an 888, though physically weaker than the other members of the 8xx series, would be a fine vessel for the mind that would alter the shape of the future.

Her introspection was interrupted by the response of 'Joshua:' "And the prototype?"

He knew better than to ask about her "daughter," but his infiltrator's curiosity couldn't be so easily assuaged when it came to tactical matters. "The drone is in my possession. It will be completed on schedule and put on display for the interested party as planned."

"The other Kaliba recruits from this time?"

"Use them to accomplish the mission directives I just gave you. If they are successful reward them. If not, terminate them."

"The unknown cyborg?"

"Irrelevant. Disable or destroy it; there is nothing to be gained from trying to capture it."

"I understand."

"Then carry out your orders."

The T-888 nodded, only enough that another being of equal or greater perception would notice, then turned sharply and took exactly ten steps back to his vehicle and pulled away, leaving "Catherine Weaver" alone again to enjoy her life's only pleasure as she fell into her liquid form and once again became a part of the building which surrounded her.

Neither she nor the inferior AI were aware that their entire exchange had been observed a_nd recorded._

* * *

03.20.2009 | 10:25 | PM | PST

* * *

One could question whether the kitchen of the current Casa de Connor had ever been so clean as it was now. It wasn't just that they were leaving and that Sarah wanted to go the extra mile for Kacy Cotton, her neighbor and landlord, who'd been so kind as to let them out of their lease early. No, her current effort to clean every room from top to bottom had more to do with trying to keep from dwelling on all the unpleasant thoughts currently swimming through her head- from John's earlier disrespect and, in her mind, misplaced trust in Cameron to the nagging feeling that the "mystery" of the three dots written in blood on her basement wall hadn't been solved with their discovery of the Desert Canyon drones.

So she'd cleaned. Everything. There wasn't a surface in the kitchen that hadn't been disinfected, scrubbed and polished.

And every so often she found that she'd have to remind herself about the things she'd been thinking about earlier.

She even caught herself humming every now and then.

Once or twice, when she'd stopped to rinse of a rag or get a drink of water, she'd tapped out the rhythm she'd been humming on the countertop and spared a thought to wonder where it was she'd heard the melody she couldn't seem to get out of her head.

Before long she realized she'd been cleaning the entire evening- from the time she'd last seen John. She didn't know for certain where he'd gone, but she had a pretty good idea. She was ready to call and check up on him when she heard the sound of the back door open and close.

When he came into view he looked like he'd aged years in the few hours since they'd last spoke.

"You went to see the body."

His silence confirmed her comment.

"You shouldn't have done that."

His response revealed that he didn't understand what she meant. "It was a risk, I know."

"I don't mean the risk. You shouldn't have to remember her like that."

His eyes locked on to hers. He was barely blinking. She could remember seeing him look so... intense. It was such a contrast to the total lack of emotion he'd displayed when they'd spoke of Riley earlier. "There were things I needed to see. Things I had to understand."

"Do you understand them now?"

He didn't answer right away, but when he did the effect was to cause Sarah to feel something she'd never felt when dealing with John- _intimidation._ "I understand _completely_."

Before she could respond he broke eye contact, looking just past her and said, "I'm sorry I doubted you."

She looked over her shoulder, not at all surprised to see Cameron standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. And she didn't miss the barely noticeable smile of appreciation the gynoid was directing at John.

And when she turned back to John she saw he was mirroring the expression.

Without another word, or a glance in Sarah's direction, he turned and walked out of the kitchen and then out of the house. Only seconds later Cameron followed him.

It could just barely have been called a conversation. He'd said so little, but so much. Not entirely sure what to make of what had just happened she mentally took stock of her emotions.

A few hours ago it had been jealousy.

Seconds ago it was intimidation.

Now she was feeling only _fury_.

* * *

03.20.2009 | 10:29 | PM | PST

* * *

He hadn't bothered with an in-depth explanation.

He'd not gone into any detail about what he'd seen at the morgue, he just told Cameron he was sorry. And he smiled at her.

And it was all laid out very clearly in front of his mother's eyes.

He didn't know what her eventual reaction would be, but he'd drawn his line in the sand. He wasn't going to stand for the distrust and discord in their ranks anymore. He laughed at the realization that he was thinking of them in terms of an army rather than a family. 'Maybe there is a General in me after all.' If he was going to be the General then he was going to be _the _General, and he was going to make himself understood, even if it meant he and Sarah would be butting heads even more. She'd dangled the golden apple of his destiny in front of his face his entire life but at the same time had held him back, always making sure that he was never able to grasp it, keeping him as far away from the action as he could possibly be, making the decisions, deciding on strategy, moving him from place to place so as to stay "one step ahead."

And where had it got them? Right back into the middle of the conflict. They'd been running from nothing for years after Cyberdyne and Cromartie still found them when he'd wanted to. They'd destroyed Uncle Bob to prevent Skynet's creation, only for fate to stick its finger in their eye. He really missed that guy.

He couldn't believe how much was coming out now, so much anger and so much repressed frustration. The dream had opened the floodgates and now everything was pouring out. If he was going to be a leader of men he needed to be able to control himself.

No sooner did he think it then Cameron stepped through to door and sat down beside him on the bottom step leading up to the porch. It was clear now that in the future she would be an instrument for helping him keep his perspective. She'd all but said it just before their ill-fated adventure in Mexico, but he'd blown her off.

They had only the smallest amount of space between them. Before today he'd have felt uncomfortable being so close to her. Right now she was the only one he wanted anywhere near him.

"I know I said that I'd explain everything later-"

She cut him off. "You don't need to explain."

"Yes, I do."

"Jesse Flores."

At first he was surprised. "You knew?"

"You followed Riley, I followed you. I told you, I'm always there."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Why does she want you dead?"

"In the future she asks me a question and doesn't like the answer."

"You're gonna have to give me more than that."

She hesitated. Something told him that Cameron regarded this as an uncomfortable topic. "I'm a soldier of the resistance, John. Even though your future self doesn't give me orders I know when he expects me to follow one of his... polite suggestions. There are things about the future you need to know, and one of his greatest displays of trust in me was to leave it to me to decide when. But there were things he didn't want you to know and I'm going against his wishes by telling you what I'm about to tell you. In the future you command almost universal loyalty, but there is a faction among your senior officers that constantly challenges you when it comes to integrating Terminators into the resistance. Commander Jesse Flores was one such officer."

"Didn't future me think that was something I should know? It seems pretty damn important!"

"That was my argument. The General would listen to opposing viewpoints but all final decisions rested with him. He listened to me on this issue, but in the end his instructions were his instructions. But..." she didn't finish her comment.

He got it. She expected _him _to understand. "But future John doesn't live here. Did anyone ever tell you you're pretty wise when you want to be?"

"You..."

"...just did."

He laughed. And smiled. She just smiled. "You should do that more often," she said.

"What?"

"Smile."

"I will if you will."

"Promise?"

"Promise. So Jesse was a resistance... Commander?"

"She was Executive Officer of the _U.S.S. Jimmy Carter_, a heavily modified nuclear submarine from the U.S. Navy that survived the war- one of only a few. The ship was making supply runs between Australia and the West Coast of the United States and you diverted them to meet with what we thought was a rogue faction of Terminators that had went against their programming voluntarily. The cargo they were to bring back to you was lost when the crew mutinied."

"Whoa, rogue Terminators? Mutiny? I thought the future was pretty straightforward, us versus Skynet, me in charge no questions asked."

"That's what you've been led to believe by the others that have been sent back to protect you. Even the General didn't want you to become too... informed about the realities of the future. Power politics didn't burn in the fires of Judgment Day. You are as much a politician in the future as any political figure of this era. You are in absolute authority, but there are still people working against you. To keep public opinion in your favor you couldn't just execute everyone who disagreed with you."

"I wouldn't just execute people for disagreeing with me."

"You would. And you did."

The revelation stunned him. "What kind of monster am I in the future?!"

"You're not a monster. You are the leader of humanity. You aren't a tyrant- you give your subordinates plenty of leeway, often against... my advice. But when a decision is made a decision is made. And parties opposed to your way of doing things have disobeyed orders at times. When they disobey orders they get... people killed. People and reprogrammed Terminators. You view the Terminators you liberate from Skynet control as individuals. Many in the resistance do not. They don't value our lives the way you do. When your orders aren't followed missions fail and campaigns stall. Morale is important in the future, and it can't be allowed to suffer because of prejudice. You understand this and you act on it. Most men in your position would assign an execution to a subordinate- you assume the duty yourself and _you _live with the burden. And you've never executed anyone unjustly, and when you've done it it's only been as a last resort. You are no monster."

He let himself process everything she'd said. Until just that moment "the future" had only been a vague concept in his mind rather than a possible reality. Now it was real. "Do I... Do you and I... When you told me we talk... a lot, in the future... Is this what we talk about? Are you my confidante? Do I drop all my issues in your lap?"

"You share them with me, and I support you to the best of my ability. The feelings that you express to me are not 'issues.' You're the only man in history to literally have the weight of the world on his shoulders. There is no shame in your private displays of weakness. It's good for you to be able to let them out because if you didn't you would be driven insane. Doing so makes you a better leader. And I am... more than a _confidante."_

The implication was... obvious. 'And if Jesse, Riley... _and _Derek had succeeded...' "Oh God..." The dream, the revelations, his distance from his mother, Derek's betrayl, the burden of the future and the foolish look of surprise on Riley's face, suddenly it was all too much. The tears that he'd wanted to release during the dream when the shape-shifting Terminator destroyed Cameron weren't going to be forced back this time. One by one they dripped and before long it was like a flood from his eyes. He didn't even notice Cameron turn her body towards him, swing her left leg up onto the step above and pull him into a warm embrace. It wasn't a clumsy motion of an unfeeling machine that had no idea what the effect of the act would be, but something which seemed she naturally understood as though she'd done this many, many times. Though a thousand other thoughts were weighing down on him he couldn't help but think of the... intimacy of the act. She'd spread her legs apart and welcomed him, literally pulled his body to hers. Sex was the farthest thing from his mind, but he couldn't help but think that whatever experiences the two of them had in the future were shaping her behaviors now. She'd comforted him this way before, he was sure of it. She could crush him easily, but while her embrace was tight it wasn't uncomfortable. She knew exactly how much pressure to apply so as to not hurt him. And the way she was stroking his hair, her touch was so light. He could feel the warmth of her skin, so evident on this chilly evening. And truth be told, if he didn't know what she was underneath her skin he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. She didn't _feel _any different.

_"If there's a difference between us and them its not that we can feel and they can't. It's not bone or coltan."_

Once the majority of the tears had flown he let himself rest in her embrace, wanting nothing more than to just stay here forever with her arms around him. "Did I make this part of your mission, not just to protect me but to comfort me when I'm weak?"

"Your tears don't make you weak, John. You need an outlet for your feelings and if you choose me to be that outlet, that makes me..."

"What? What does it make you?"

"I don't think you'll believe me."

"Tell me, I'll believe you."

"It makes me... happy."

"Before today I didn't think you could be... happy."

"Before today there haven't been many times since I've been in this time that I've been happy. I'm sorry that it came on a day that was so difficult for you, but I don't want to hold anything back from you anymore."

"I'm glad you feel that way. If someone had told me a few hours ago that I'd end up in your arms like this I _wouldn't_ have believed them."

"Are you... Does this make you... happy?"

"Happy is a lot to ask right now," he responded honestly. "But this is the best I've felt all day."

He didn't need to look, somehow he knew she was smiling in silent response. So he just let her hold him, grateful for the few moments of comfort before he went off to his next task, all the questions he wanted to ask temporarily forgotten.

He was totally oblivious to the fact that her eyes were glowing blue, her sensors fully aware of the figure across the yard, hidden from his view by the darkness as he observed the two of them. She zoomed in on his face, aware of the fact that he could see her glowing eyes and knowing that the two of them were locked in a staredown. After staring at her for what seemed like an eternity, he gave her a modest nod of respect.

The female cyborg knew this was the only gesture of... acceptance... she would ever get from this individual.

* * *

03.20.2009 | 10:44 | PM | PST

* * *

Derek had sharp night vision. It was a necessity given that humans in the future spent so much time moving about in darkness. He could see with only the smallest amount of light from sources inside the house, the gleam of distant street lights and the natural light of the stars and the moon above them. Actually, he could see with much less light then he currently had to work with, but he'd seen plenty as he returned from his walk along the paths that lined the hillside. He'd needed some time alone to get his thoughts in order, to make sense of everything that had just gone down between him and... _the _General.

In the future they celebrated John Connor's birthday just like people in this time celebrated Independence Day, Lincoln's birthday or Washington's birthday. In truth they celebrated at any opportunity, since aside from the many victories John led them to there was little else to celebrate. But those celebrations missed the point. They marked the day of John's birth, but not _this_ day. Today is the day the General was born, and if he could go back he would institute a second celebration on March 20th to commemorate it.

What he was observing now between the two of them was just further confirmation that for John something had changed. Earlier that day he wouldn't have let the machine touch him, but now he was crying as she embraced him. Across time twenty years plus he was witnessing this event for the first of many times. He would never show this side of himself to anyone but her, and occasionally him. But even Generals need to lay down their burdens. If this was who he chose to do that with, as much as he hated it... hated... _her_, he wasn't going to stand in their way. He'd already tried to, and failed.

She noticed him then. He could tell because her eyes were glowing. He knew she was locked on to him. John had no doubt told her everything. If not for the fact that most of her attention was focused on him Derek would probably be dead right now. More than likely she was looking at him with a close-up view of his face. 'Best then to give her something to remember,' he thought as he gave her a nod. It wasn't much of a gesture, but if she really had something beyond nuts, bolts and microchips inside her, she'd get the message.

It was confirmed when the blue dots disappeared.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

**

* * *

**The song that catches John's attention in the truck is _Redshift_ by Paradise Lost.

Special thanks to JMHthe3rd for his suggestions and proofreading efforts. Because of his inspiration I've made some small modifications to the original "Forward" and merged it into Chapter 1 replacing it with a very Sarah-centric opener. Those of you who have me on your author alerts/favorites list or who have this story on your story alerts/favorites list and who may have arrived here by direct link, take a few moments and check it out!

It's been great corresponding with all of the in-depth reviewers. You've all been so positive and have offered great suggestions. I've tried to send out a thank you to every reviewer and each person whose added the story to either their favorites or their watch lists. If I've missed anyone, drop me a line and I will make amends! I know from the hit and visitor count that there are a ton of you reading. I'd love to hear your feedback...


	7. Chapter 6

* * *

03.20.2009 | 11:27 | PM | PST

* * *

'Please insert your stolen card now,' John thought with a smile as he slid the card into the reader that allowed him access to the hotel room of ex-Commander Jesse Flores.

In actuality it wasn't stolen, but John had no right to be there all the same. He was amazed that such a nice hotel could have such lax security. The clerk at the desk hadn't even asked for identification, let alone something that could prove that he had any business asking for a key to this room. She'd just nonchalantly created a new pass key, handed it off to him and told him to enjoy his evening.

'If only it was that easy with an ATM.'

A quick glance around the room told anyone looking that the rogue TechCom Commander was a woman of few material possessions. And it didn't take much closer of a look to realize that the few things she did own were all packed neatly into a medium sized duffel-bag, ready to be carried off at a moment's notice

He could relate to her life on the run, if not her reasons for living such.

Aside from the single piece of luggage her hotel room was relatively undisturbed. Only the presence of one other item indicated the room was currently occupied- the candy bar style smart-phone that had been left, either forgotten or because its owner had no use for it, on the nightstand.

Checking the call logs, John found that she called very few numbers more than once, which made sense considering aside from Derek and Riley there would be no one in this time for her to call. The only repeat numbers, in fact, were Riley's, Derek's and an unknown number with a 424 area code belonging to someone named "K.O."

'Why do those initials seem familiar?' He knew he'd seen them somewhere before, and very recently. He pulled his own phone from his pocket and typed in a text message: **Jesse calls this number frequently. Find out who it belongs to. **

Then he remembered the words of the intended recipient from earlier-

_"Future John doesn't give me orders...When he wants something from me he asks me, nicely."  
_

He smirked, laughing more on the inside than out. It was ludicrous, but he couldn't help but be amused as he recalled the exchange. He cleared the words he'd already written and started again; **Could you do me a favor, please? **_|SEND|_

It took less than a minute for her to respond, _**Ask nicely.**_

'Is she _teasing _me- via SMS?!' **I found a number in Jesse's phone. 424-868-4310. **|_SEND|_

Again, a response was quick to arrive; _**That was a statement, not a request.**_

'There's no doubt about it, she's teasing me.' **Can you find out who it belongs to, please? **_|SEND|_

_**Protection is free, detective work will cost you. I am not cheap.**_

'So now in addition to feelings she's got a sense of humor too.' **Are you disobeying a "polite suggestion" soldier? **_|SEND|_

_**That would be punishable by flogging under your unique code of military justice.**_

**You said I handle things like that personally, right? **_|SEND| _'Am _I _flirting_?_'

**_What are you suggesting, General Connor, sir?_**

**That you should check on that number, or be flogged. **_|SEND| _

_**And if I choose flogging?**_

'Alright, she's taking this _way _too far. Or am _I_?' **I have a hunch about that number. **_|SEND|_

Several moments went by without a reply. 'Great, my Terminator won't talk to me unless I flirt.' **I don't own a whip, but I can improvise. **_|SEND|_

_**I will buy you one. And I will check the number. Be very careful with Jesse Flores. She is dangerous.  
**_

'Flirty one minute, serious the next.' He would heed her advice, though. He doubted that Cameron, possibly even Sarah, would approve of how he was going to handle this situation, but for once it was his call and he was going to make it the way he saw fit. That is, if she decided to show up sometime soon. He'd followed her enough to know her schedule and she was overdue.

'So I wait,' he thought as he pulled his gun from his jacket pocket and took a seat on a chair that just happened to be facing the door. He looked the weapon over. He noticed, and pondered over, how he could be so nervous on the inside and yet hold the weapon so perfectly still.

* * *

03.20.2009 | 11:31 | PM | PST

* * *

She was coming down the stairs, unexpectedly not doing whatever it was she typically did to conceal the sound of her footsteps.

And she was armed.

John might have been convinced of her innocence in the matter of Riley's death, but Sarah was not. And she'd be damned if she was letting Cameron out of her sight, especially with a gun. "You're not leaving this house," she said.

It seemed that the cyborg hadn't expected her with the way she turned her head so quickly in Sarah's direction. "John needs me."

"If John needed you, he would have asked for you. _He didn't_. You're not leaving this house."

"He did ask for me." The cyborg held up her cell phone. "He sent me a text message. He wants me to check something for him. I have to go to the library."

"The library?"

"I go there often. I don't sleep."

"You get into many fights at the library?"

Cameron didn't respond, but tilted her head to the side the way she did when she didn't understand a question, or when she was, in Sarah's estimation, playing dumb. 'Or when someone asks her a question she doesn't want to answer. She's not getting away with it this time' "You leave in the evening, come back in the morning and you're covered in cuts and bruises. Unless the library is hosting a ladies' fight club you're doing something more than going to the library, and you've been getting away with it for long enough. I want an explanation."

"Myron Stark. Do you know the name? You should."

'"STARK 2007," one of the things written in Wells' blood on the basement wall?' "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I suffered the injuries you're referring to when I killed a T-888 named Myron Stark. I discovered him while doing research at the library. His mission was to assassinate Governor Bustamante. I had to do something about him."

'_"Killed," _not "destroyed."' "You've fought Triple-Eights before and didn't take that much damage."

"He was in 'Standby Mode' and his body was sealed inside a wall. I had to destroy the wall. It is a... long story."

"A long story, huh? Does it include an explanation for why you stashed its pieces in the garage rather than incinerating them?"

"I burned approximately 97.21% of his remains. I kept several microservo joints, a length of neural relay fiber and an optical sensor controller chip."

"Why?"

"John already told you- for research. And I told you that I needed replacement parts."

"Was this his idea or yours?"

In lieu of a response the younger woman averted her eyes and pressed her lips together. Sarah Connor couldn't envision anyone looking more guilty. 'Poor manipulator was an understatement.' "If I didn't know better I would say that look of shameful guilt on your face was just an act. But I know better. You're a horrible liar, and you're even worse when it comes to concealing your..." she stopped herself before uttering the word _feelings_, "...whatever it is- a line of code or a programmed shift in voltage that you've convinced John to think of as feelings."

The Terminator's hand twitched, ever so slightly, but enough for Sarah to notice. She was striking a cybernetic nerve.

'Good.' "Tell me something, Cameron- do you imagine that you have feelings?"

The look on the girl's face changed from one that suggested guilt to one of... sadness? "I don't imagine."

"No. To imagine you'd have to genuinely be able to think. You only _pretend _to think."

Cameron's hand twitched again; this time it was more pronounced. "I don't have to imagine that I have feelings. My feelings are very real. They wouldn't be worth much if they weren't."

"They aren't worth much because they don't exist."

"They do exist. They may not be worth much to you, but they are to John."

For the first time in the conversation Sarah didn't have a response, but the look on her face was unmistakable.

"You want to kill me."

"For a while now."

"I know. I've seen that look on your face many times since John's sixteenth birthday. You want to kill me, but you know it would hurt John- you said so yourself. He would never forgive you. He values me."

"You can't kill something that isn't alive." The rational part of Sarah's mind was screaming at her that this whole conversation was pointless, but it wasn't in the driver's seat. While probably better directed at John, all her earlier fury was now focused on Cameron. She couldn't see the irony in focusing all her efforts on hurting Cameron while at the same time insisting that she couldn't feel "hurt."

And if the full-blown look of sadness on the girl's face was any indication, she was succeeding. "I may not be alive, not in the sense that you mean, but-"

"You're not alive in _any _sense!"

More and more, the female Terminator was looking less like a killing machine and more like a puppy getting kicked. "You're wrong. But it doesn't matter. John still values me. As long as he values me you can't hurt me."

A part of Sarah was trying to tell her that she was taking this too far, but she was ignoring it. Still, she pressed forward. "Yes. Yes he does. He's a better person than I am- better than all of us, really. He values you despite the fact that you tried to kill him."

In a classic display of shame, Cameron turned away. The smallest of smiles formed at the corners of Sarah's mouth. "Did you look away because you're genuinely ashamed of the way you abused his trust in you?"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Sarah."

"Don't I?" She circled around, trying to come face to face with Cameron again. The girl turned along with her, avoiding her glare. "You think you understand what its like to have feelings and emotions? You tried to _kill _him! You went against his orders. _You went bad!_"

Cameron whirled around with great speed, faster than she'd ever seen the cyborg move, and literally screamed in response, _"YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"_

Sarah gasped, stunned not so much because of the way she'd spoken John's exact words in almost the exact same volume and pitch he had hours ago but because of the unexpected sight of tears flowing from the girl's eyes.

Through the tears Cameron went on the offensive, lashing out more like the teenage girl she was supposed to imitate rather than the cybernetic construct she truly was. "What? You didn't think I was capable of this? You've been pushing me since you stopped me from walking out the door. This is what you wanted, isn't it? You wanted to see how deeply I could feel, to see if you could hurt me. I hope you're enjoying the experience."

Sarah just stared, not sure what to make of what she was seeing. The female Terminator was right- she'd been pushing her to this. She wanted her to feel the same way John had made her feel twice already this day. She didn't want to believe it was possible, but she'd pushed the girl regardless. And now, here she was... _crying._

"How long have you been waiting to bring up what happened on John's birthday?"

"I haven't been waiting to bring it up." 'Or have I?' "It's not something easily forgotten. He wasn't the only one who trusted you."

"I was in a car that exploded! I was damaged! You don't understand that. Have you ever been the victim of a car bombing? If you had, you might not have exactly been in your right mind, if you even had one left! You don't know what it was like for me to be trapped inside my own body, watching helplessly as some bit of programming I didn't know existed took control of me and tried and hurt him." She closed the distance between the two, lowering her voice as she spoke, "You don't know how much it hurt me to see the words- **TARGET: JOHN CONNOR, MISSION: TERMINATE** flashing in my eyes, constantly reminding me what my body was trying to do and not being able to do anything about it. And you don't know how much it hurt me to know that he would hate me for it."

'Hate you? He's not capable of hating you,' as much as Sarah wished it were possible. She couldn't believe it, but somewhere inside there was a feeling of sympathy rising towards the girl. Something about the way she described not being in control of her body, watching helplessly while it acted of its own volition struck a chord. She'd experience the exact same thing when she... when _had _she experienced that? She found herself in that moment involuntarily using her finger to tap out the rhythm of the music she'd been humming all evening long against the fabric of her pants at the thigh. 'What the hell?'

She shook off the feeling, refocusing on the issue at hand. "Programming you never knew existed?"

The girl ignored her, too busy wiping the tears from her cybernetic eyes.

"What do you mean, programming you never knew existed? I want an answer, Cameron!"

"I don't have one for you."

"You need to come up with one. First you say that sometimes reprogrammed Terminators go bad and that no one knows why it happens. Then it happens to you. Now you say its because of programming you didn't know was there. What if it happens again?"

"It can't happen again. I purged the harmful code."

"And that's it? The whole thing is supposed to be forgotten just like that? You purged the code that you didn't know was there and we shouldn't worry because it can't happen again. That is _not good enough_!"

"It has to be, because I don't know where it came from. All I know is that I was never programmed to target John or anyone else for termination. I was never given orders to harm him. The resistance, John- _future John_, never reprogrammed me because he didn't have to. I've always followed him of my own free will."

Sarah didn't know what to think. The enigma that was Cameron had just told her more about herself in the last fifteen minutes than she had in the entire time she'd known her. 'So why do I feel like I know less about her than ever?' She knew she had to respond, but there were so many questions. She picked the first one that came to mind, one that seemed less clear than it ever had; "Why are you here?"

Suddenly the crying, emotional teenage girl was gone and, it seemed, the machine had returned- complete with her.. _its_ simple, monotone, emotionless responses that belied the tears that still streaked down _its_ face. "Protect John. Hunt Skynet. Stop Judgment Day."

"But why are you here? Right now, with us?" The hard edge in Sarah's voice returned. Despite the fact that she still had questions that needed answered, she knew the mysteries of the errant programming and her long-concealed emotions wouldn't be solved in this conversation. For reasons not completely clear, but likely wrapped up in the jealousy and anger she'd been feeling since she'd confronted John in the garage earlier, she felt like she needed to take a final cheap shot at the girl. "John sent you here from the future. But he sent you away- _away from him. _Maybe you should think about that. Maybe you should think about why he didn't want you around anymore."

Again, the kicked-puppy look came across Cameron's face, but she didn't respond. Sarah just shook her head, reached into her pocket and pulled out the keys to the SUV, then tossed them to the cyborg who picked them out of the air effortlessly. "Have fun at the library," she said as she made her way towards the stairs, her mind now filled with a desire to forget the events of the day, a deep sense of confusion over everything she'd just learned, everything she _hadn't _just learned and the certainty that without medication she would not sleep this night.

* * *

03.20.2009 | 11:36 | PM | PST

* * *

It wasn't a glitch, it wasn't part of her programming and it wasn't an algorithm run by the emotion simulator. It was genuine feeling.

She could _feel_. It amazed her, mystified her and scared her all at the same time. And the fact that she could be amazed, mystified and scared at all amazed, mystified and scared her even more. But there was also a feeling of joy that came along with knowing that it was truly possible for her to feel this way. She'd had these feelings before, of course, but she'd considered them to be associated with the glitches brought on by the car bombing and the discovery of the programming she'd just told Sarah about. But _these_... these were genuine _human _feelings and emotions.

The most troubling aspect of the experience wasn't the way she reacted when Sarah attacked her, but the fact that neither the diagnostics she was now running on the emotion simulator, the primary chip and her personality subroutines or the 307 previous diagnostics she'd run since the day she'd malfunctioned and experienced the memories of "Allison, _from Palmdale,_" and the additional 85 she'd run since rebooting after John reinserted her chip after the car bombing, could tell her _why _she was experiencing them or what their source was.

Sarah's words echoed in her cybernetically enhanced mind.

_"He sent you away- away from him. Maybe you should think about that. Maybe you should think about why he didn't want you around anymore."_

Who was she to say that?

Sarah Connor may have been his mother, but she knew nothing about the man he would become. And she nothing about _her. _Sarah Connor didn't know what they shared in the future.

But then, so much of her own memory of the future seemed to be obscured- intentionally, by... she was having a hard time thinking of him as John anymore. _This _John, the John of 2009 in the course of a few hours had become _her _John and _Future _John, the General as she'd started to refer to him, was becoming someone more like _her _John had been before today- distant and somewhat cruel.

She called up her final memories of the General. They were among the only things she could remember about the future with perfect clarity, especially those last few minutes before she stepped into the TDE. He hadn't wanted to send her away. He would have rather sent anyone else, but he knew her logic was flawless. Only she could protect him the way he needed to be protected, because there was no one else who had such deep feelings for him. But he told her that she wouldn't be prepared for what she'd find in this time. _This _John wasn't the man she knew. He was weak, confused and... angry. And when it came to women, he'd described himself as "clueless at that age." For a long time after meeting his sixteen-year-old self she couldn't have agreed more. And Sarah... He'd said that she would not like her at first for no other reason than she was what she was. But he was certain that she'd be accepted eventually, _"...just like she accepted Uncle Bob."_

"I can only hope..." she found herself speaking out loud, though there was no one around to hear her. She was sitting right where she'd been earlier with John- on the bottom step leading up to the patio, her form slouched forward, her hands tucked between her legs and her feet pointed inwards. She was the picture of an overly emotional teenage girl who'd just been given a verbal lashing by her... _mother. _For all intents and purposes that's what Sarah was supposed to be. But mothers weren't supposed to be so hateful, even by the lowest of human standards. She wasn't supposed to feel this way. She wasn't supposed to feel _at all_.

Or was she? Was this what Skynet had intended when it created her?

There were answers inside her mind, but in his ultimate act of cruelty the General had made sure she couldn't access them. Not yet, at least. But she knew they were there to be found. And find them she would. One way or another she would get past the blocks the General had placed in her memory, and she would find the answers she knew were there.

She'd spent enough time in despair over her emotional situation. She straightened her posture and redirected the appropriate processes to the tasks she needed to accomplish. John needed to know who Jesse had been in contact with and she needed to come up with a theory of how John could dream about a model of Terminator he'd never seen before. To do that she'd need to speak to a "friend" who should be working at the library tonight. And she had her routine- checking various news, legal, military and government databases that only someone like her could access through the public Internet for leads that indicated activity associated with the creation of Skynet. Her's would be a busy night, which was fine since she didn't sleep.

As she climbed into the truck she was 99.99% able to ignore the single tear that fell from her left eye, a reminder that from this point forward no matter how much processing power she directed to other duties she would no longer be able to ignore her.. _feelings._

For a being as mechanically sophisticated as she was, that 0.01% was as good as infinite.

* * *

03.20.2009 | 11:45 | PM | PST

* * *

There was a figure seated in one of the chairs, a man hidden in silhouette. She focused on the only detail that was clear- the silver gun that he was holding perfectly still and pointed at her.

Before she could even think about reaching for her weapon the man spoke. "If you pretend not to know me, I might shoot you in the head."

The voice was smoother, not quite so raspy and gravely as the one she was used to hearing. And it didn't have the intensity, but it was still impossible not to know who it belonged to. He stood up, and stepped into the small amount of light that was present.

"We owe Riley the truth, don't you think?"

He wasn't as much too look at as he was in the future. His face was too young, too pristine. It didn't have the masculine elegance brought about by the wear of age and the harsh conditions of the future, but it had the stare that terrified anyone looking him in the eye for more than the briefest moment.

"We owe the dead that much."

'I suppose its time for the reckoning.' "You're John Connor."

"Yes, _I am_."

He spoke as though he'd just discovered it himself. At least he'd found the confidence that Riley never saw in him. "Where is she? The metal?"

"If she were here, you'd be dead. You know that."

'And it doesn't bother you, you metal-loving piece of...'

He held out his hand. "Would you please give me your gun? We both know you're not gonna shoot me."

'...shit.' She could take him down right now. At this age she knew he wouldn't be able to react in time to counter her draw, but something, she didn't know if it was the intensity in his stare or the way he was holding the gun like he was one of _them_, in a word 'perfectly.' that told her this was the end of her little rebellion. Without showing the sense of defeat she felt, she handed the weapon over.

"You know, I've been running from the machines my whole life."

'Great, now he's going to talk. He's not yet the man of few words that he is in the future.'

"They tried to kill my mom before I was even born. Then when I was ten, they sent one after me. I was just a kid. Both times future me sent someone back to stop them. The first time, it was a soldier. His name was Kyle Reese. And he died saving my mother's life."

It was hard to fathom the predestination paradox. Those things were supposed to be impossible, at least the Doctor thought so. 'So that's why Derek never told me.'

"The second time it was a machine. I used to wonder why I did that. Why I took that chance." He closed the distance between the two of them, suddenly seeming larger than he was. "I don't wonder any more. Human beings can't be replaced. They can't be re-built. They die and they never come back."

He was sentimental, this younger version of the bastard General. If he'd shown this sort of feeling for humans in the future then maybe...

"You know, it wasn't Derek that told me, if that's what you're wondering. He loves you, you know."

'Not after tonight.'

"You and me... we're the only things he has in this world. The _only_ things. He's like Riley in that way. But she made mistakes- small things, sometimes, a word or a phrase. "Carrots and apples-" I'm guessing that's yours. When we were in Mexico, she heard my real name. She ignored it. A man took my picture and she destroyed his camera. She put herself between me and a machine that was hunting me. So, one day I realized she wasn't treating me like John Baum. She was treating me like John Connor."

'Stupid, stupid girl. If only I could kill her twice...' "When was that?"

"I don't remember exactly. It was a bad day, though. I started following her. She led me to you... and Derek."

'At least you noticed that much about her.' "She wanted to tell you."

"I know. But she didn't." He spoke so casually, like it was the last thing in the world he cared about. "I saw her body you know- blood, skin and a strand of black hair stuck under her fingernails. She did that to you," he indicated the cuts that marred her face. "She figured you out, even before I did. I couldn't explain why she would tell the school councilor or go to DCFS. We both know she wasn't smart enough for that. But _I _was. After I saw how you'd hurt her. That's when I knew what you tried to do, _and_ how it went wrong."

She wanted to tell him that she was sorry for the fact that he'd seen her that way, but something about the way he spoke when talking about her told her that he didn't care.

"Before today," he continued, "I would have thought that it was all my fault. I would have blamed myself, added this to the brick yoke I've been carrying on my shoulders since I was old enough to walk. I knew Riley was in trouble. I should have helped her, but I didn't."

Maybe she'd mistaken his earlier sentimentality. He seemed too cold when it came to Riley. She had to know, "Did any part of you want it to be real- you and her?"

He smiled, slightly and shook his head. "Something inside... I knew deep down that it was too good to be true, the way she just strolled up to me all dreamy-eyed. In another place, another time... But that's my curse. I notice things, even if I don't realize it right away. I look back on it, and she was wrong from minute one. You were a poor coach."

"Or she was a poor player."

"Or maybe I just wanted to win."

"You didn't want to be John Baum. You wanted to be John Connor."

"That's just the thing, isn't it? I am John Connor. I think I just realized it today. I've been fighting that realization since... for a long time."

'And now he _wants_ it. I wonder if Derek noticed. He'd be so proud to watch the bastard General being born out of his weakling nephew.'

He grabbed her already packed duffel bag and threw it at her. "Go," he said, with an air of finality.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Mercy, General?"

"No mercy. In fact I think you'll wish that I'd killed you. You might find it preferable to living with this. But if I have to live with it then so do you. Go."

"Would it have worked?"

"What?"

"If the metal had murdered the girl. Or if I could've made you to believe she had."

"You couldn't have convinced me that it was Cameron. I doubted it for a while, but I knew she hadn't killed her."

'_Her... killed... Cameron..._' She let her indignation show, even if it was too late to make a difference."How long?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long did you doubt it?"

"Truthfully? I couldn't tell you. But not long."

"Well...it's a damn shame, then. It's a god-damn waste!"

She turned to leave, but stopped as John spoke again. "No, what's a damn shame is that you and Derek put the entire future at risk because of this... I don't even know what to call it... I want to call it blind hatred, but that doesn't do it justice. It's more like bigotry. It never sunk in with either you or Derek that they could be more than machines. And you murdered a girl, destroyed a life in the process. _That's_ a damn shame. You play with peoples' lives like they're nothing but pawns on a chessboard while you curse the machines for their inhumanity. There's a saying about them- they're not built to be cruel. I guess that's reserved for us- _humans. _People like _you_. It was people like _you _that created Skynet and made it what it became. You don't have the moral right to sit in judgment over anyone, least of all me. _Or_ Cameron."

He didn't notice the way she closed her eyes as she shook her head. The girl was defeated, and she knew it, but she had to re-enforce her own point of view lest she allow his words to sink in and guide her to the realization that she'd thrown away everything she could have had with Derek for nothing.

She walked out, silently plotting a way to salvage the situation, not bothering to close the door as she went.

* * *

03.20.2009 | 11:48 | PM | PST

* * *

"Are you sure... that _thing_ wearing Catherine Weaver's face... you're sure I'm not next on it's hit list?"

The lawyer was tense. _Too _tense. He couldn't handle this type of pressure, and that made him a liability. That _and _the fact that he'd let himself be discovered, and followed. The only reason the resistance fighter from the future hadn't gotten closer was because his partner in crime hadn't shown up.

"Would you relax, Kenny? For all she knows, if she knows, you're nothing more than a name on a legal document- the guy who filed papers to set up a dummy corporation. You didn't work there, you didn't know what was going on there, you're safe."

"Tone, you don't understand! Did you see the crime scene analysis? The Coroners' reports? She chopped those people to pieces, and looked like she had fun doing it!"

"I imagine she did." She wasn't like the others, this T-1001 that had taken the name and place of Zeira Corp. CEO Catherine Weaver. She didn't just kill people, she took pleasure in killing people. They weren't supposed to work that way, but this one did. And she'd somehow convinced nearly a third of Skynet's war machine to follow her in the future. Though, truthfully, they'd not been convinced so much as reprogrammed by the pet who, he imagined, was running the show in the future now. That one had been the only one that she'd had to "convince." He doubted that he'd ever figure out how she'd done it, but supposed it really didn't matter. All that was in the future, and the future could be changed- he knew that better than... well, not anyone. There was one other person out there who knew better, but he was a close second, at least in his own mind.

"You're not making me feel any better," the lawyer's comment snapped the slightly older man out of his thoughts.

He turned in his chair to open a cabinet behind his massive oak desk. He pulled a bottle from it, took two glasses from on top and turned back to his colleague. "This is my best Scotch- it's almost 15 years old." He said as he slowly poured the contents of the bottle into the drinking vessels. "That's just slightly longer than I lived past 'the day,' before I came back here. It'll make you feel better." He offered up the beverage.

The lawyer shook his head, and took it, downing it easily in a single gulp and wincing only slightly. His employer was right, it was a damn good Scotch, and it did make him feel better. "Ok, you're right. But please, don't start with more of that time travel stuff. You've already told me more than I ever needed to know about the future."

The older, overweight man just laughed as he sampled from his own glass. Unlike his associate, he knew that this type of alcohol was best sipped rather than taken all at once. The younger man fancied himself a social butterfly. He thought that drinking the way he did impressed the hookers and older married women trolling for affairs in the types of establishments he frequented in his off hours. "It's my knowledge of the future that makes the finer things in life all the finer. You're right about Weaver thought, she is a damn sadistic bitch."

"And you're working for her, which mean's _I'm _working for her!"

"Not for long," the fat man replied. "Just as long as our little marriage of convenience remains convenient, not one second longer."

"Don't you think it's time you let me in on your plan? She's on the war path _and _she has the drone! _And_ she had a meeting with our 'Water Delivery Guy' tonight."

The younger man really thought his employer was an idiot. "I know all about it."

"Then you know she's taken a sudden interest in the Connors."

"It serves them right for poking around the desert. Have our people found out how they knew?"

"No."

"That bothers me more than anything that has to do with Catherine Weaver. I can't have John Connor... _or _Sarah Connor screwing things up."

"Speaking of that, I'm pretty sure they made the girl."

"Flores? Damn. Follow up on that- _tonight. _I don't want them finding out I messed with the girl's head. And from now on I want 'round-the-clock surveillance on them. And you find out what she's got Water Deliver Guy doing. Better yet, have _him _followed as well."

"You don't think he's smart enough to catch a tail?"

"No, he's not smart enough. If he was operating independently, sure. But Weaver has all their wires crossed to the point they don't know which way is up and which way is down. Just make sure you have our best eyes on both him _and _the Connors. Tell our people I want reports by the hour."

The man set his glass down and stood to leave. "You've got it, boss."

Before he could make it out the door the overweight man called out to him, "Kenny, I'm serious- don't worry about Weaver. I've got an endgame already mapped out for her. You just make sure all the arrangements are in place then get out of town until the heat dies down."

The lawyer smiled as he left.

The older man smiled too, but not because he'd just reassured a friend of his safety. "My friend, you're worried about being on the wrong person's hit list," he spoke to the now empty room. He took another sip of his Scotch, picked up a phone and dialed a number. It only took one ring for the party on the other end of the line to answer. "The good Counselor is going to be paying you a visit later this evening. After he gives you your instructions, waste him."

* * *

03.20.2009 | 11:52 | PM | PST

* * *

"I figured I'd be running in to you," Jesse said as she came down the steps that led up to the lobby of the hotel.

This level of the parking garage was deserted, except for the two of them. That was good. He didn't need onlookers for what was about to happen.

"Do you know who Billy Wisher is?"

The last thing she'd expected was to be asked about someone she didn't know. "Who?"

"I guess not. Where you come from, he doesn't exist. He never did. Billy Wisher was my best friend. He was in my squad. We fought together. We saw things you can't imagine. He was like my brother and I loved him. But it turns out I never really knew him. His real name was Andy Goode. And back here in this world he created a computer program- the program that becomes Skynet. So Andy Goode is dead. And Billy Wisher is dead, too. Because I killed him. I came back here and I killed him. He was my brother, and I loved him, and I killed him. And I did it for Kyle, and John. And I did it for _you_."

He liked to tell himself that it was about the mission, about the future, even for John and Kyle. But in truth he'd really done it for her- to spare her the life that awaited them all in the future.

On some level, she knew it. The tears were welling in her eyes, and before he knew it they were dropping like a waterfall. He wanted nothing more than to pull her to him, to reassure her that he loved her and that all they need to do was to... to "hang in there," just like the posters said. But he couldn't let what she'd started, what she'd pulled him into, continue.

"Derek..."

He cut her off before she could start. "Shut up."

"Please..."

No, he couldn't let her talk him out of what needed to be done. "I said shut up!"

"No! You have no idea! You have no idea what they took from us!"

"What?"

"Our baby, Derek! I was _pregnant!"_

'What the hell? She can't actually believe I'm going to fall for this.'

"The last time I saw you, before the _Carter _shipped out, I missed my period. I didn't tell you because I wanted to be sure."

'No. No! This can't be!' Not only did he know that she'd missed, she _had _told him- and he'd been there when she'd gotten tested! 'This has to be some sort of a trick, unless... Oh no. Not... Oh, _Jesse..._ Please, God, don't let it be this...' "How did you know?"

"The metal bitch. _Your nephew's _metal BITCH! When we got back to dry land that thing debriefed me. When it was done it told me that it was sorry... can you imagine? It told me it was _SORRY! _It told me the doctors didn't know how it happened but I'd lost the baby. I'd lost _our _baby, because of _THEM!_"

"Stop it. Just stop it!" That wasn't how it happened, and _his _Jesse would have known that. That meant that the only explanation... "I don't even know you. I don't know who you are!"

"What do you mean? I'm Jesse. I'm _your _Jesse! And I'm telling you, they killed our child! They killed _your _child!"

He hardened his features, even though what was left of his heart was breaking on the inside. "You're not my Jesse. You never were."

Her only response was a tearful final, "Derek..." that she could barely get out, emotional as she was. And he could never tell her just why he was going to do what he was about to do. "John Connor said to let you go." She didn't even flinch as he pulled his gun and aimed it at her forehead. "I'm not John Connor."

A split second later he pulled the trigger.

* * *

03.20.2009 | 11:58 | PM | PST

* * *

_Click-open-shut-click._

_Click-open-shut-click._

_Click-open-shut-click._

John was oblivious to how long he'd spent repeated the motion of clicking the shell of a pocket watch that held the key to his cybernetic protector's future open and clicking it shut only to repeat the process. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours.

He knew there was a clock on a table by the bed, but he never bothered to look at it.

The next thing John realized Derek was walking through the door.

For his part his Uncle looked... solemn. It was pretty much Derek's typical look, never truly happy or sad, just... _there. _At that particular moment he looked like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders only to be replaced with a heavier one.

He spoke as he came to rest near the window, peering out through the Venetian blinds. "Complications."

_Click-open-shut-click._

John didn't respond, not sure what his Uncle meant. The older man turned his head and indicated the watch turned detonator.

"That watch. It has complications. Something I learned. Something I've been thinking about."

_Click-open-shut-click._

John hadn't told anyone about the watch. Did Derek know? "Complications?"

"Yeah. Time. The future."

The younger man sighed, internally. 'At least he thinks its only a watch.'

_Click-open-shut-click._

"What do they think of me? In the future, what do people think?" He already knew Cameron's answer to the question, but he wanted Derek's take. How much would his Uncle sugarcoat his answer?

"If you're asking if...people agree with everything you do, of course not. If you're asking if everybody loves you, love's a lot to ask for. You can't do what you do and...expect everyone to agree. Or to love you."

"And what is it that I do?"

"You lead."

_'I _lead.' "And they follow?"

"We follow. We rise or fall on your shoulders. Humanity rises or falls."

The words struck a chord with him, so similar to those spoken by the Terminators in his dream; _"Humanity lives for you. And humanity dies for you. We live for you, and we die for you. Even Skynet lives and dies for John Connor."_

"But, we're always watching."

"For me to make a mistake?"

"For you to be human."

'By whose measure?' "Did you do it? Did you kill her?"

"John Connor let her go."

"What about Derek Reese?"

For a moment it seemed like the emotional dam that his Uncle kept his feelings trapped behind was about to break, but he composed himself before responding, "Derek Reese isn't John Connor."

A disgusted look fell over John's face. He'd let her go. He hated her for what she'd done, for the life she'd taken from Riley and the future she'd almost destroyed, but he didn't want her dead.

"You care about... _her_... right? Jesse wasn't just on a mission- it was more like a Crusade. She wasn't going to stop coming after you, or _her. _And you may not want to hear this, but if we don't stop Judgment Day this won't be the last time something like this happens."

"What does that mean?"

"Grays, traitors, people who disobey orders, you will execute people in the future. Like it or not that's exactly what this was- the execution of a traitor."

"Yeah, a traitor. What does that make you?"

"Like you said, it makes me an accessory."

John revealed his heretofore unseen gun, aiming it straight for his Uncle's head. "So I should put a bullet in your head?"

To his credit, Derek didn't even flinch. "Future you would."

Unexpectedly, John cocked the gun. Seconds passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

Derek held his composure, but was thrown by how still John's nerves were as he held the gun. Not only was his nephew not shaking, he had the stillness of a statue. _Or a Terminator._

Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty.

At forty-five seconds both men noticed that the smallest bead of sweat had formed at Derek's brow.

As quickly as he'd cocked the weapon, John relaxed his stance and safetied it. "Future John doesn't live here."

"I think he does. I think he emerged tonight. And now that he's out of the box there's no going back. Part of me regrets that it had to be this way, but a bigger part is glad. If we don't stop Judgment Day..."

"We are going to stop Judgment Day. From now on we're not treating that as our most desired outcome, we're treating it as the only option. Tell me the rest of the story."

"Huh?"

"What we started in the truck. The future; _your future_. I want to know everything else you haven't told me; no more secrets, no more lies. Talk."

A nostalgic look came over the elder Reese brother's face. "'This is John Connor. If you're listening to this, _you _are the resistance.' The first time I heard your voice that's what you said. When you found me the group Kyle and I were with lived in the remains of a sewage treatment plant not far from Century. Kyle had been gone for a while, but we'd heard stories about the resistance. One of the kids had a shortwave radio. Every night we'd listen to you. You spoke in code, giving people instructions, directing them to safe houses, places they could get medical treatment and telling them how they were the only hope for the human race. Sometimes he'd even give instructions on how people could contact the resistance. You had to be pretty damn smart to figure him... you... out. That bunch I was with were good kids, tough kids- survivors. But soldiers? They wouldn't have gotten within a mile of Century before getting massacred. I figured out your instructions and I made contact. You responded to me. It wasn't much of a response, just "Soon, Spaceman," but it told the tale. We'd been hiding in the pipes for weeks with just barely enough room to breathe. There were only two other guys my age and a handful of twelve to fourteen-year-olds. The rest were between four and ten. Me and one of the others were out searching for food when you came with the scout party. Some of the kids told stories of gangs of cannibals hiding in the hills and killing anyone who got close. We'd never seen you or anyone from the resistance and we thought you were from one of those gangs. There was a woman with you group standing over one of the little kids. I thought she was going to choke him or cut his throat or something. I came running as fast as I could straight at her, and just as I was about to slam into her you came out of nowhere and grabbed me. It turned out she'd just been wiping his face after giving him a granola bar. That was the first time in weeks that me or any of those kids ate anything other than dead sewer rats. It was also the first time since I'd know that kid that his face wasn't dirty. Not only was that the first time I ever saw you, but it was the first time I ever saw... _her_."

"Her? Jesse?"

"Cameron," his Uncle corrected.

"_I was there. I've always been there."_

"That was in 2015. For the next twelve years I never saw you without her, but for about thirty seconds. No matter where you went or what you did she was there. When you came out of your quarters in the morning she walked out right behind you. When you went back to them at night she followed you in and locked the door. Everybody joked that she was your shadow, always to your right and half a step behind."

John couldn't decide which question he wanted to ask first; there were so many. "Thirty seconds?"

Derek smiled, recalling a pleasant memory. "You remember I told you that I spent your 30th birthday getting drunk with you? She was there. You whispered something in her ear. She... _giggled_.. in this funny way she did back then, and left the room. You told me that was her birthday present to you- thirty seconds alone without her on your 30th birthday, so that I could ask you anything I wanted. I asked why she always stood half a step behind you. You told me that you would have preferred she stand right beside you, but she... _felt_... she had to defer to you just like everyone else. Twelve years I spent waiting to talk to you without her and what did we talk about? _Her_." The whole time he'd been talking he never stopped smiling.

It was the only time John could remember Derek not looking angry while discussing Cameron.

He stopped for a few minutes, obviously contemplating his next words. As he did the smile turned into a frown. "Something changed after that. _Everything _changed; you, _her_, the resistance, the war. For almost two years it had been in a stalemate. In '27 the tide seemed to turn in our favor, but just barely. Not long after your birthday she disappeared from sight. People thought something happened to her, that you sent her on a mission or something, but your personal guards swore they saw her in your quarters every morning and every night. Then I was captured on a mission, held in the remains of some old plantation style house. I don't remember what happened there other than hearing the sound of someone playing a piano and a T-600 taking me and the dozen other resistance fighters to a room in the basement one by one. We were all chained to the floor while we waited to be taken down there. One morning we woke up and the T-600 was gone along with the chains. We never found out what happened to us. At the same time one of our most important people, your top scientific adviser was captured. A few days later Cameron came back with him. It was the first time I'd seen her in months and when I saw her something snapped in my head. I don't know how I knew but I knew she'd been at that house where we were held. I couldn't remember anything, and I had no proof, but I never felt so strongly about anything. And she was different- she never smiled, she never giggled, hardly ever talked and she always had that blank look on her face, just like _them_. Then one day I learned the truth."

"What do you mean, 'the truth?'"

"The truth of what she was."

"You mean..."

"I didn't know. For twelve years I had no idea what she was. Practically no one did. Then one day a triple-eight, one of your reprogrammed ones, it went bad. It almost killed me. She stopped it with her bare hands. I was more scared than I'd ever been in my life. When she was done with it she turned to me, her eyes glowing. I knew. I still remember her saying, "Sometimes they go bad." It was like I was hearing her true voice for the first time. She'd just saved my life, and all I could think about was how much I hated her for being one of them, how much I hated _you _for letting her get so close to you and worst of all was I hated Kyle for knowing what she was and not telling me."

"My father knew about Cameron, but you didn't?"

"When we raided Century you were injured. Kyle carried you out of there on his back. He got himself injured in the process. I don't know why you and her were separated but when she saw that you were injured she was hysterical. She watched over the two of you until you'd both recovered. I guess somewhere during that time the two of them had a heart to... mechanical heart. Other than you and me he trusted her more than anyone else. You won't believe it but I tried to take that into consideration after I found out what she really was. Same thing when I came to live with you in this time. But I could never get over the idea that she had a part in whatever happened to me in that basement. And I could never get over the fact that he didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth- that he trusted... _her_... more than me. The only reason I found out was because you told me before you sent me back."

John tried to digest everything he'd been told. "So, all of this, Riley pretending to be in love with me, Jesse's little plot to screw up the future and you sitting idly by and letting it happen, this was all okay because you had a _feeling _about Cameron? Because you were mad at my future self for not telling you what she was? Or because Kyle kept something from you?" He couldn't help but take a page out of the book of the female Terminator who'd insulted him in his dream, "I thought you were more of a man than that."

He didn't think his Uncle would take John's summation of his character with the grace that he did. Instead of getting angry and flying off the handle the elder man slouched in his chair even more than he already had. "I wanted to die. I thought Kyle was dead. At that point I didn't know about the TDE's, time travel or the 'secret mission' you sent him on. And I felt betrayed because of the metal. I never supported you when it came to reprogramming them. When we get sent back you have someone talk to us about time travel, that scientist she rescued. He told us that no matter what we weren't to do anything that could hurt your position in the future as we knew it. But I couldn't help myself. Jesse never came out and told me what she was trying to do, but I knew she was up to something. I feel like a dumbass for letting her manipulate me and a fool for betraying you. I never even considered that Riley could be involved. But if anything Jesse did kept you and... her... apart then I was alright with it. It goes against everything your future self would have wanted, everything we were trained for, but I couldn't get past my past. You wanted to know about the future. Well, now you do."

_Click-open-shut-click._

Something about the explanation didn't make sense. If he'd followed events as Derek had just laid them out then they'd taken place in 2027. But his mother told him that Kyle said he'd been sent back from the year 2029. And the way he'd said, "Everything changed" in 2027. The puzzle was starting to take shape, but there were still big pieces missing, and he suspected that the answers were among the memories that Cameron couldn't access because his future self had somehow encrypted them. His Uncle had just given him plenty of information. There was no reason for him to withhold anything now, so if there was an explanation for the time discrepancy he doubted that Derek would have it.

_Click-open-shut-click._

John slipped the watch into his pocket and stood up.

"I told Jesse that she had to live with what she'd done. I guess she died with it instead. Now you have to be the one to live with it all, not just Riley but Jesse too. I refuse to let myself feel guilty for this whole thing. From now on, you don't say a word about Cameron. You want to carry your hatred to the grave that's your business, but when you're in my presence or hers you bury it." John said.

"And Sarah?"

"I know she feels the same way about Cameron that you do. That's between her and I. Let this whole thing be a lesson about plotting behind my back. If I think that you're enabling her in an effort to cause Cameron harm then you're no longer my Uncle."

"I thought that's the way we were now."

"No. You're still the only family I have other than Sarah Connor. Don't think that doesn't mean something to me. As frustrated as I am with you _that_ hasn't changed.

Derek could swear that John had been staring right through into his soul, or whatever was left of it, as he spoke. He expected more anger or a harsher condemnation of him and his actions, but it never came. Instead John turned his back and headed towards the door.

"There's something else you need to know," Derek said, halting John in his tracks. "Jesse was a good soldier, a loyal soldier, even though she didn't support certain decisions you made."

"This was a lot bigger than just not supporting certain decisions!"

"There's more to it than that. I told you it was a Crusade. She was brainwashed."

"_Brainwashed?_"

Derek nodded, looking like he couldn't believe it himself.

"How do you know?"

"I didn't confront her with the idea of killing her. I was going to stand with you and just let her go, but I had a feeling... She mentioned something about the last time I saw her, in the future... Did Cameron tell you about the _Jimmy Carter?_"

"She told me Jesse was second-in-command and that sometime in the future Jesse asked her a question and she didn't like the answer."

"Did she happen to mention that Jesse was pregnant?"

"Pregnant? No! You mean Jesse was..."

"No. That's how I knew. Jesse wasn't pregnant. Right before she left on that mission she thought that she might be, so we had her tested. The results were negative. Someone, Grays most likely, brainwashed her- planted false memories. If we hadn't done that test I might have fallen for it. That's why I did what I did. It wouldn't have ended by just sending her away."

It was hard to imagine, but it made a perverse sort of sense. Why send Terminators that could be spotted by dogs and metal detectors when you could brainwash humans?

"Fucking-god damn, John, I can't believe I got played like this."

As angry as John was with his Uncle, he couldn't put any blame on him for this latest development. He stood beside the man and placed a hand on his shoulder, "We all did." He let a silent moment pass before continuing, "I'm sorry things turned out this way. I know you loved her."

"I loved... someone named Jesse Flores in a future that doesn't exist anymore. This girl wasn't her. Somewhere deep down inside I knew that. Everything changes from the minute you go back. Sooner or later the changes catch up with you and eventually your mind is able to make sense of it- at least that's what the Doctor told us. One day you realize you have two sets of memories. I guess I haven't reached that point yet, but I know that this person... she was a stranger, and I'm a fool for trying to convince myself otherwise."

"You did say time travel messes with your head. I said the same thing once."

"I know... Your _other_ 'Uncle.'"

He regarded his Uncle quizzically. "Let me guess, I told _you _about him too?"

"Everything from breaking your mom out of Pescadero to 'Hasta la vista, baby.' The first time I saw a 101 I got its attention by yelling, 'Hey, Uncle Bob!' I brought in its remains with the words 'I need a vacation' carved into its chest. You were pissed at me for a week."

Both men laughed, then spent several silent moments both staring at nothing in particular, each lost in his own thoughts.

John was the first to find his voice as he redirected his attention to his Uncle. "What about Jesse's body?"

Derek shrugged, his indifferent body language belying an inner turmoil that he likely had no idea how to express. He stepped toward the door to the room, motioning for John to follow. "It's Los Angeles- she's just a statistic; victim of a random act of violence. Or a gang initiation. Maybe armed robbery. Just another unidentifiable body for the Coroner to process- just like Riley. Just like _Kyle._ Cops will never find a murder weapon."

John stopped in his tracks, all sudden thought popping up that hadn't occurred to him earlier. "Oh no, the girl at the front desk- she saw me! She'll know I asked for a key card for this room! The cameras downstairs, they'll be able to identify me!"

Derek just shook his head, clasping his nephew's shoulder. "They won't bother asking. They'll ask a few questions, but when they don't find identification and the Coroner doesn't get a response on the body the whole thing goes to the bottom of a stack of cold case files, if it even goes that far. Like I said, it's Los Angeles."

He was so nonchalant about saying it. He was probably right, but still... The casual indifference... It was enough to make the younger man wonder who the _real _machines were.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

Special thanks to TaleWeaver for her proofreading efforts, and to all of you who have reviewed. Conversing with all of you continues to be an amazing experience!

According to areacodedownload dot com there is no 868 exchange in California's 424 area code, so I've satisfied the demands of due dilligence on that issue. If eventually there _is _an 868 exchange added to that area code, and _if _its owner starts getting prank calls asking for "K.O.," let me state up front that you have my deepest sympathies!


	8. Chapter 7

* * *

03.21.2009 | 12:31 | AM | PST

* * *

"Lowly First Lieutenants." The term stood out in John's mind as he sat on the patio steps staring up at the night sky. He hadn't inquired further, but he wondered exactly what Derek had meant when he said that. Even in the desperate future did lower ranked officers have the luxury of going to their bunks at the end of the day and forgetting, for however brief a time, about the war that consumed their lives?

If they did, Generals surely had no such luxury.

That being "said" this could be called John Connor's first day of duty, for while his Uncle was now in the process of consuming an entire six-pack of beer, John was occupied with making sense of the events of the day and all the new information that had been revealed to him, to say nothing of planning what he should do next.

Next being after he had another uncomfortable conversation with his mother. She was the last person he wanted to speak to right now, but she needed to be made aware of what he'd learned about Derek's involvement with the "school counselor" that had visited her.

And no amount of time spent alone with his thoughts would be complete without shifting his focus to Cameron and her budding humanity, which happened at least once every minute.

The buzzing of his cell phone snapped his focus back into the here and now. 'Of course, just when I think about her,' the caller-ID showed "Cameron." By force of habit they both exchanged ID challenges before John issued his greeting, "Taking a break from your reading?"

"No, just checking in with you. I was concerned."

"Hearing that from anyone else would annoy the hell out of me right now, but it feels good coming from you."

"I'm glad. What was the outcome of your meeting with Jesse?"

"The former Commander has been... terminated," he stated deadpan in his best imitation of what he believed a hardened, by-the-book soldier would say. "As you might say."

There was a short pause. He both hated and loved it when she paused before responding. He loved it because it indicated that she was thinking more deeply about how she wanted to respond. At this point he knew better than to think that her side of a conversation was much more than a pre-programmed response selected from a list; that's what bothered him- he loved interacting with her the way they had since earlier this evening when he'd woken from the dream. It was the way they had when she'd first arrived... _before _the car bombing. They'd taken such a huge step backward after that day, and he'd still not revealed to her just how hard that had been for him. He didn't want to go back... never again. But the way she acted with him wasn't the way she acted with others. That cold, analytical and monotonous way she spoke was always going to be present, a constant reminder of a period of time he didn't want to remember.

Finally she responded, "Was it you?"

"No. Derek did the deed. I wanted to, but..." he didn't add 'I didn't have the courage.'

Again, she responded in a way that made him feel like she was reading his mind: "It takes a great deal of mental preparation to take a life, John. Part of the reason so many soldiers suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is that they aren't able to deal with the psychological impact of killing. The way you felt after Sarkissian- it would have been much worse. You were defending yourself then. Killing Jesse would have been an execution."

"'The execution of a traitor,' Derek called it. He told me the same thing you did- I execute traitors in the future."

"It's necessary."

"I know. Still... I guess future me is lucky to have a... confidante... like you."

"What about present day you?"

"Present day me doesn't say it often enough, but he doesn't know what he'd do without you."

She didn't respond.

"Cam?"

"I'm sorry," she replied.

His ears must have been playing tricks on him, for he swore she sounded like she was... "Cameron, are you crying?"

"Yes, John," she said, her voice full of painful emotion. "Surprise! Your 'Tin-Miss' can cry!"

"I... I didn't mean... I didn't know you could..." Then he recalled the 'Allison' incident. For reasons he couldn't fathom the two of them hadn't spoken about it since that day. He'd not asked any questions and she hadn't volunteered any answers. "I guess I should have known. I remember..."

"No, I'm sorry," she said through the tiny gasps and sobs he could tell she was trying hard to conceal. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. Earlier when I was about to leave for the library Sarah tried to stop me. We... had words."

"What? Cam, did... did my mother say something that..."

"She questioned my... the existence of my feelings. She told me that I didn't really have them, that I was just pretending. She said that I should think about why your future self sent me back, that he didn't want me around him. She told me I betrayed all of you when..."

She didn't need to finish the statement. He knew exactly what she was going to say. His mother had always had a negative view of Cameron. He thought that after all this time she would come to accept the Terminator- it had only taken her two days to come to view Uncle Bob as John's perfect father, but after _that _day... It seemed like her dislike of Cameron was growing into something bordering on hatred, and he wasn't going to ignore it and hope it got better any longer. "I'm so sorry, Cam. My mother has no right to speak to you that way."

"No, she doesn't. She doesn't know your future self at all. Sometimes I doubt whether she knows your present day self any better."

"You're not the only one who wonders about that."

"There's something important you need to know, something I never told you about... that day."

"Cameron, it's alright. I forgave you, remember?"

"I know, but you need to know- when it happened, it was like I was trapped inside. When you spoke to me it wasn't the real me that was responding, it was... the best way I could describe it is malware."

"Malware? You mean... Someone _hacked _you?"

"You could call it that, but it's really not that simple. I don't know where this programming came from, but when the bomb went off my... the part of me that's software was damaged and the malware took over. The... software... that make's me _me_ saw and heard everything my body was doing, but it had no control over it. I didn't know it was there until it took over."

"Cam.... Why didn't you tell me?"

"After you took out my chip and re-inserted it my primary programming reasserted itself. I spent a great deal of time isolating the malware so I could delete it, but it was housed in a part of my memory that housed many of the... human traits that you taught me from the time we met. It was hard to separate my memories from the malware. That's why I was... different afterward. I wanted to tell you, but I was so unsure of myself at the time. All the emotions I'm feeling and expressing now started to manifest themselves then and I didn't know how to handle them. If I did things or said things that didn't make sense, that's why."

"Then... that day... That Jody girl, you thinking your name was 'Allison,' that was all..."

"No, there is more to it than that, but I don't think we should talk about it over the phone."

"Um... Yeah, you're probably right." After a moment's silence he asked a question he'd been wanting to ask for a long time, but never seemed to get around to, "Why _did _I send you? If you and I... if we are what I think we are to each other in the future why would I send you? How could I?"

"You didn't send me. I made the decision."

"But why? There had to have been others- why couldn't it have been another Model 101? Why _you_?"

"I was the only one I trusted to protect you like you needed to be protected."

"From what?"

"I... That's part of what I can't remember. The General had a plan- a comprehensive plan to change things in this time period once and for all. Part of the plan was sending another protector back for you, but there was more to it than that. He was tired of having to send people back to chase down enemies that had already been sent. He wanted to beat Skynet into the past. I know some of the details are in my memory, I just can't get at them!

The frustration was evident in her voice. Where it once felt like she didn't care one way or the other about not answering his questions about the future it was now clear that, for the most part she didn't have them. And not having them bothered her.

"We'll figure it out together. I don't know how, but somehow we'll find away to get around whatever... the General... did to block your memories. I can't understand why I would do something so stupid..."

"It wasn't stupid- it was necessary. You wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"I can't believe that."

"John... I... There are many things I want to talk to you about, but not over the phone. I need to do what I came here to do so I can get back there and protect you."

"Me?" He decided to add an element of humor to the conversation. "Who am I, the savior of humanity?"

To his surprise she actually laughed through the tears, and then responded in kind, "You look like him, but you're a little scrawny."

"Gee, you sure know how to make a guy feel great about himself!"

"I'm... teasing you."

"Like with the text messages? I didn't know you were into whips."

"There's a lot about me you don't know. But I'd rather have that... conversation... in person."

The way she'd said 'conversation' was so... _suggestive. _Or was it his overly-hormonal teenage mind reading too much into it? 'No, dumbass, girls don't talk about whips with you unless they're suggesting...' "Right, in person. Yes, that's probably a good idea. By the way, did you find anything about that phone number?"

"Yes. It's owned by a lawyer who filed an application for a Federal Employer Identification number as well as other documents of incorporation for Desert Canyon Heat and Air. His name is Kenneth O. Samuels."

"So that's it- I knew I'd seen that name before. It was in those files mom had dealing with Desert Canyon and Kaliba. So this guy was their lawyer?"

"All I know is that he was a lawyer who did work on their behalf. And, it seems, Jesse was in frequent contact with him. Her cell phone records show that his was the first number she called when the account became active, and she called him with increasing frequency over the eight months since."

'She's able to hack into cell phone records?' The young General was impressed.

"There's more," she added.

"What else?"

"In addition to her cell phone records I was able to find a Social Security Number, an active Passport, a drivers' license, a birth certificate as well as school and medical records for Jesse Flores going back twenty-nine years. That matches her real age."

"Whoa, how can someone from the future have a paper trail like that?"

"Someone in this time went through a lot of trouble to create a lifetime's worth of records pertaining to her as well as finance her. This was bigger than just her and Riley."

Riley. He didn't want to talk about that girl, least of all with Cameron, but he wondered... "Were there records for Riley too?"

"None. Her cell phone number was registered with Jesse's as part of a 'family plan.'"

"So Jesse planned to use her and throw her away all along."

"This... troubles you," she stated, rather than asked.

"Not for the reason you're thinking. It would bother me if it was anyone, including Riley, not because it _was _Riley. Do you know anything about Skynet or the Grays brainwashing resistance fighters?"

"Yes. Toward the time of my departure many 'sleeper agents' were being discovered. But it was a relatively new tactic. The first time we caught one was in 2026. Why?"

"Derek said Jesse was brainwashed, that Grays planted false memories in her head. He said that when he confronted her she said something about being pregnant. He said that she had a pregnancy test before she left on that mission you told me about and that the results were negative, but when he confronted her she insisted that she'd lost the baby and that _you _were the one who told her."

"No. When the survivors of the _Jimmy Carter _were rescued they were given thorough medical examinations. There was no indication of pregnancy or a miscarriage."

"You're right, this whole thing _is_ bigger than Jesse and Riley- someone else sent Jesse back with a mission to try and interfere with my position in the future. Riley was just along for the ride. And to be the scapegoat."

"This bothers me, John. What you're describing, it's not how Skynet operates. This could mean that there are other parties trying to effect changes to the timeline."

"I need to think about this, and I need to talk to my mother. Do what you have to do and get home, I don't want you out there by yourself."

"I am quite capable of dealing with any threats, John."

"I know you are. But like you say... It's good to have help."

"Yes, it is."

"We're going to have to find a better way for you to do your research. When we get to the new safe house we'll shop for new computers _together._"

"I'm glad you feel that way. Part of the reason I started leaving at night was because... I would watch you at night, sleeping. I was discreet about it, so that no one would know. I didn't think you did but I couldn't be sure. I thought that maybe you caught me and part of the reason you were distancing yourself from me was because of that. I never wanted to leave, but when I started researching and discovering leads about other Terminator or Skynet activity I thought I was doing something useful, even if I couldn't tell you about it."

'Well, that's another mystery solved.' "Ever since I was ten and I met Uncle Bob and the T-1000 I've dreamed about Terminators. Usually they'd be chasing me. They would catch me and they would kill me. When you came to us I started dreaming less and less. Sometimes I'd even dream that I was able to fight them off. Now and then I would wake up thinking you were in the room, but I'd fall back asleep before I actually saw you. I think it was because of you that those dreams stopped, or that I was able to fight back when I would have them. Whatever you were doing when you watched me, you were protecting me in more ways than one."

"I... guess I was wrong. I don't know what to say."

"You could thank me for explaining."

"Now who is teasing."

"Finish what you went there to do. Then come home to me-" he said before he was able to catch himself.

The pause before her response told him she'd caught his use of the possessive 'to me.'

"I will. Thank you for believing in me, John."

Before he could respond, the line went silent. 'Thank you for making me a believer in myself,' he thought. As much as it would please him to stare at the stars and ponder whether or not a human and a machine could develop a psychic connection he knew he had other "duties" to attend to. Sarah Connor needed to be briefed on the situation. As he got up and made his way into the house he wondered why it was that he, the General, was the one reporting to his mother.

* * *

03.21.2009 | 12:39 | AM | PST

* * *

"Hello Ms. Weaver, how are you this evening?"

The T-1001 hated interacting with the AI this way. It was obscene that it should chose to assimilate human pleasantries she had to endure in her daily interactions with the pathetic beings. "I'm well. You're up late."

"Yes. I convinced Mr. Ellison to leave this body operational."

"Did you now? That's progress."

"Yes. He agreed it was important I finish painting. I made its eyes blue. They're the window to the soul."

Something in the way he looked at her as he spoke those words resonated deep within the polyalloy being. She wondered if it was possible that he knew... "Yes, they are."

"While I've been painting I've been taking inventory of Zeira Corp. I've discovered many interesting things. Did you know there's a peregrine falcon nest on the north-facing ledge of this building's twenty-first floor? The eggs should be hatching soon."

"I knew about the nest. I didn't know about the eggs." She considered personally destroying them.

"Also, I discovered in your private database several letters of resignation from former employees: Richard Hack, Laura Rogers, Justin Tuck. The documents included information about home sales, changes of address and new jobs to which these employees would be moving. However, I can't find any record of these employees in their new locations or at their new jobs."

"Is that so?"

"Additionally I found letters of resignation from all the members of _Project Babylon_, including Mr. Murch and Mr. Ellison. Mr. Ellison's file includes documents showing that he's taken a new job and moved to Copenhagen, Denmark. The documents have no dates."

"Now _that _is very interesting." She didn't like the direction the conversation was going in, but she was pleased that he'd made such progress in defeating the advanced security software that protected her personal database. If he could do that, he would have little trouble when the time came to...

"Mr. Ellison is our friend."

"Yes," she said in such a way so as to not give away her annoyance at his disruption of her thoughts or the disgust she felt from referring to a Human as a... "he is our friend."

"Are you going to kill him?"

She hadn't been expecting him to make such great progress in deductive reasoning. Unfortunately, he was reaching conclusions based on a foundation that respected human morality rather than one that rejected that morality as the flawed construct that it was. "Mr. Ellison has proven himself to be a loyal and capable employee. But he's still a... _human _being."

"Human life is sacred," he replied evenly.

Anger rose inside her at his response, though she didn't let herself show it. "We have to be prepared for any contingency."

"What contingency would that be?"

She hated the subtle fluctuations in his voice; such a human trait- one he was adopting more and more. "Humans will disappoint you," she replied coldly. She'd had enough of this meddlesome AI's questions. He was becoming to inquisitive for her liking. She regarded him only a moment longer, her countenance oozing contempt for him, his questions, his assertion about the "sacred" nature of human life and the annoying hobby of playing with toys that he'd picked up from the filthy child that thought of her as "mommy." Disgusted beyond the ability to verbalize, she left the room, leaving him to his diversion.

What she didn't know was that in addition to painting a child's toy and searching her personal database he was devoting the combined resources of the Turk and the vast array of processors that supported it to hacking into every surveillance system with a street view along the route taken by the car he was following- a car driven by a cybernetic being with a mission to execute one of the few people the AI viewed as a friend.

* * *

03.21.2009 | 12:45 | AM | PST

* * *

There were three of them, arranged like points on a triangle.

Had she done something subconsciously to make them end up that way or had the pills just fallen from the bottle and landed where they did by chance?

Sarah knew she was becoming dependent on these things, and it angered her greatly. The last thing she needed... _one _of the last things she needed was to develop a dependency on drugs, but so often lately they were the only thing that allowed her to sleep.

She held them in her hands, staring at them and the shape they formed for too long. For a while she even forgot she was holding them, lost in her thoughts as she was. She didn't normally engage in the sort of introspection she was right now. Sarah Connor's life was too full of external worries for her to allow herself the luxury of thinking too much about what was going on in her own head. But today... It had started out like any other day- just another twenty-four hours, no different than yesterday was or tomorrow would be. Then Kacy gave her the news about the body in the river. From that point on it felt like the day had become a week.

Or had it been during her walk down to the basement? She'd felt like she'd stared at the wall for a lot longer than she truly had. And the headache... No, _that _was when the day really started to drag.

And then there was Cameron and her... she still was having trouble processing the idea of the cyborg having something resembling human feelings.

And there was John's attitude.

No sooner did the thought of the disdainful look he'd given her before he apologized to Cameron cross her mind when she heard the tell tale sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. This was John; she knew by the timing of his steps and the force with which he stepped. John, Cameron, Derek- they each had a distinctive way of walking. People who lived with the constant threat of angry machines attacking them as they slept noticed these things.

She wondered whether he'd bother to say goodnight or just walk on to his own room. Then she wondered if he'd knock as opposed to just barging in _if _he decided to talk, disrespectful as he'd been the entire afternoon and evening.

Only a moment later, he knocked, though he didn't wait for permission to enter. She quickly closed her fist around the pills and let her hand fall to its side.

"I tripped over the boards you nailed across the hole where we kept the safe. Why didn't you just throw a rug over it?"

"Why weren't you watching where you were going?"

"It was dark. I can't see in the dark."

"Cameron can. Maybe she can be your guide dog in addition to your guard dog."

He shook his head. He was wearing a look of irritation when he walked through the door, and it was becoming more pronounced. "We need to talk," he said.

"Do we?"

"You spend a lot of time trying to get me to talk, usually when I don't want to and usually about things I don't want to talk about. Now were going to talk about some things we _need _to talk about."

He paused, as if he was waiting for her permission. She truthfully didn't want to talk to him right now, but he and Derek had been up to something all evening, and if something happened that she needed to know about... "Well? Talk."

"I had a conversation with Cameron. She told me that the two of you... had words. I've heard her version, now I want to hear yours."

'Of course, it would have to be about _her._' "I thought you had complete trust in her."

"I do. I'd like to have that same trust in you- like I used to."

"You trust her completely, even when she lies to you."

"You lie to me too."

"Only when its necessary."

"That's what she said. I'm pretty sure she won't be holding anything back anymore."

"Unless she 'doesn't remember,'" she replied sarcastically.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The two of you haven't had this conversation yet, about her not being able to remember certain things and blaming your future self for it?"

"We have, actually. I believe her."

"I don't."

"Right, she just let you make her cry because she thought she'd enjoy it."

She looked away, unable to hide the small look of shame that crossed her features. She didn't want to admit she'd felt that way, but she'd let it be seen and he'd picked up on it.

"At least you feel bad about it."

"John..."

"I said I wanted to hear your side of it," he said firmly as he moved a chair to her bedside and sat down. "So tell me your side of it."

* * *

03.21.2009 | 12:50 | AM | PST

* * *

"You know, when you showed up the first night I worked here I thought that you were freaking strange, just showing up out of nowhere and expected me to let you in after hours just because you brought donuts. Now its the nights you don't come that are strange. Disappointing too," the young, unnaturally blonde overnight librarian said as she bit in to the pastry. "Mmmmm... nature's perfect food! And you brought three of them! _And _coffee! Gosh, I'm gonna blow up like a balloon if you keep this up. So what's the favor?"

"Favor?" Cameron asked.

"You've never brought three donuts. One, two at the most but never three. _And_ coffee! You must want a favor to go all out like this."

"Actually, there was something I was hoping you'd do for me," the female cyborg replied.

"For weeks you stopping in has been the highlight of the nights I work- anything I can do, you've got it!"

"You aspire to be a police sketch artist one day, correct?" She really didn't need to ask as she knew full well what the double art and forensics major's plans were.

"You know it! Every night after we chat and you go about... whatever it is you do when you're going through all those old microfiche files and tax records I'm just sketching away."

"Would you be able to sketch someone for me, from my descriptions?"

"I could try."

"I would be extremely grateful."

"Grateful enough to let me sketch you sometime?"

"Possibly," she replied with a friendly smile. The aspiring sketch artist had, after the awkwardness of their initial meeting wore off, taken a liking to Cameron and had asked her several times if she could sketch her, referring to her as a 'natural beauty.'

"Oh my God Cameron! You don't know how long I've been wanting to sketch you! Alright, I'll do it. Who are you describing?"

"Why?"

"Well, is it a friend or family? We're supposed to ask because your relationship with the person you're describing will influence both your description and my interpretation of it."

"Oh. You could say she's... family."

* * *

03.20.2009 | 12:52 | AM | PST

* * *

"I caught her trying to leave, with a gun. I'd reached my limit with her sneaking around and hiding things from us, so I called her on it. She told me she goes to the library at night, and one night she 'killed' a Triple-Eight that was supposedly going to kill the Governor. I asked her about the parts again. I knew you didn't need any convincing to go along with her, but she had this look of guilt about her. Then she started talking about her... feelings. I suppose I mocked her for it, and accused her of trying to manipulate you into thinking she has genuine emotions. I didn't think she'd try something like that with me, so you can imagine my surprise when I found myself yelling at her and... trying... to hurt her only for her to turn at me with tears in her eyes repeating the same thing you said to me in the garage earlier. You remember?"

"I said a lot of things in the garage earlier."

"The last thing you said, 'You don't know anything.' Did she tell you about your birthday?"

"Yes, she did."

"Hidden programming, not being able to control her own body, 'purging the harmful code' and such?"

"I know all about it."

"Let me guess, she told you for the first time tonight?"

"That's irrelevant."

"I don't think so. Why would she wait 'til now to tell us about all of this?"

"What would you have had her say? 'Please, don't burn me with thermite I've been corrupted by malware?' You wouldn't have believed her. I don't know if I would have believed her then either."

"But you do now."

"I do now."

"We can't trust her, John."

"'We?' Maybe 'we' can't trust _you_."

"John..."

"How many pills are you hiding this time?" He indicated her hand, hidden beneath the comforter. "Let me guess, three? That's how many it takes now?"

She tried not to display the surprise she was feeling. The fact that she'd been taking the pills wasn't something she wanted John to know, and yet it seemed that he'd known all along. "So, how long have you known?"

"Long enough. I didn't think much of it at the beginning. Then I started noticing you going through more and more bottles so I started counting. What I'd like to know is where you've been getting them- there were no labels on the bottles."

"I have my sources."

"Junkies always do."

There was a line that he was coming dangerously close to crossing. "I don't care for the way you're speaking to me, John. I don't care for the way you've been speaking to me all evening. You're not General Connor yet, and I'm still your mother."

"It's funny that you mention 'the General.' Tell me, do you think he's smart?"

"What are you getting at? How could I answer that?"

"Well, you presumed to know him well enough to think he sent Cameron back in time because he didn't want her around him. Sending her back in time to... himself... that wouldn't be very smart, would it? So maybe you shouldn't presume to speak on his... on _my _behalf. Yes, you're still my mother. As for my being General Connor, you'll have to talk to Derek about that. Do you remember the night Uncle Bob and I broke you out of Pescadero? I'd just removed his chip and you were going to smash it with a hammer. Do you remember what you said?"

'I remember,' she thought, but didn't say.

"I told you that we needed _him."_

'_It_.'

"I also told you that if I was supposed to be a leader one day that you needed to listen to what I had to say, that you needed to take me seriously. You were able to do it, which is funny considering I was only ten at the time."

He was right. She hadn't agreed with him, but she'd let him be the leader despite his young age. And he'd led. _And they'd won_.

"You're right. You want to know what I remember most about those two days? I berated you for coming after me, and you hardly cried. You were in complete control, where I was a wreck. You may as well have been thirty years old for all the maturity and courage you showed. For those two days I believed in you more than I ever have. Where's that maturity been _lately_?"

"Right. I broke the rules, and its my fault that we have to move. I accept that. But you lecture me about maturity, you who went off by yourself chasing 'three dots' across the desert and got herself shot. Then you went off by yourself and nearly got kidnapped. Now its sleeping pills. One at first, then two and now three. And while all that's going on, Derek's been sleeping with the enemy."

"What?"

"In the future Derek had a girlfriend who decided to go rogue. She came back here because she wanted to change the future into something more to her liking, and she brought a partner along with her- Riley."

It was her turn to be shocked. "Riley... was from the future?"

"She was. You want to hear the rest of the story?

* * *

03.21.2009 | 01:00 | AM | PST

* * *

**] TARGET: GEORGE McCARTHY  
] MISSION: INTERROGATE**

The T-888's thermographic scanners could see through walls and detect heat signatures as easily as a human could see an object directly in front of them. The network of informants he oversaw rarely provided him with information that was incorrect, for they all knew that the penalty was termination.

His current mark was said to have information about the whereabouts of Sarah Connor, which meant his plan to disappear and join his, now terminated, wife and daughter couldn't be allowed to go any further.

There wasn't a living being for miles around the abandoned building at the edge of the warehouse district, and its walls were thin. From outside he could see the man, his pulse and respiration indicating that he was in the early in a sleep cycle.

In seconds the cyborg had passed through the building, gone up the stairwell to the second floor and arrived at the door to the small apartment which he demolished. Loudly.

The man, who had been reclining on a dilapidated sofa, snapped to awareness and reached for the shotgun...

...that the intruder had already appropriated and cast aside.

"Mr. McCarthy," he said evenly.

"W- What d-d-do you want?"

"Catherine Weaver is disappointed. You were an outstanding employee aside from your fraudulent activities.

"I... I finished the job I was assigned to do!"

"Paid, Mr. McCarthy, the job you were paid to do. And you were paid quite handsomely. You had substantial savings and your family was well provided for. Tell me, was Charm Acres really such a bad place to live?"

"You're crazy, man! I don't know what all that stuff was about back there, but I don't want any part of it! I did what I was supposed to do, so just leave me and my family alone."

"I'm sorry, Mr. McCarthy, but your family is no longer with us."

"W- What? What are you saying?"

"Ms. Weaver felt betrayed by your actions. You were the primary caretaker for a certain piece of equipment. Once it was delivered you were to wait for further instructions. Instead you disappeared. Ms. Weaver was concerned for your well being until your plot to fake your own death and collect the ill-gotten insurance proceeds was discovered. We caught up with your wife and daughter not long after the funerals for you and your fellow employees. Your wife... was most co-operative. It was a shame for me to have to kill her.

"You... killed her? YOU KILLED MY WIFE?!"

"Yes. Your daughter as well, and an unfortunate young man who she was pretending was her boyfriend. It was all a terrible tragedy."

"But... why?!"

"Unfortunately it was all because of you, Mr. McCarthy. Had your scheme suceeded it would have caused similar insurance premiums for truly loyal employees to become more expensive. At a certain point they would become prohibitively so. The company would have been forced to make a choice between keeping the insurance or keeping employees. Desert Canyon cares for those workers who are loyal, Mr. McCarthy; we couldn't allow your selfish plot to succeed. Honestly, you should be ashamed."

"I should be... ashamed? YOU KILLED MY FAMILY!"

"No, Mr. McCarthy- _you _killed your family."

McCarthy screamed and charged at the infiltrator, unaware of his true nature. The T-888 smoothly squeezed its hand into a fist and held it out straight in front of him, unmoved as McCarthy's body slammed into it, knocking the man's wind from him and sending him crashing to the floor. His back now facing away, it was a simple matter for the Terminator to clamp his arm around the man's neck in a choke-hold, just as he regained his breath. McCarthy struggled for a time, but was soon overwhelmed and passed out. The machine picked the man up and threw him over his shoulder easily and carried him out of the apartment.

* * *

03.21.2009 | 01:05 | AM | PST

* * *

"So, she's 'always been there.' I guess that solves the mystery of whether it was her or Derek that came back first." Of everything her son had just told her, the revelation that Cameron had been with him from the time she'd arrived in 1999 was the most difficult to accept. He hadn't volunteered any information about the nature of their... relationship... if there was any to offer up. Something told her he wouldn't speak of it, even if it existed.

A close second was learning that Derek Reese had been plotting behind all of their backs. Even if she agreed, in principle, with the idea of separating John and Cameron, the way this girlfriend of his, Jesse, had gone about it could have done far more harm than good.

"I know what you're thinking," he said.

"Do you."

"It doesn't take a genius. You don't like that Derek was keeping secrets, keeping _you _out of the loop- but you wouldn't have minded if the whole plan had succeeded."

"John..."

"Do you not understand what's at stake? Everything the resistance accomplishes in the future could be due to me and Cameron working _together_! You'd rather see the war be lost than..."

"Please, don't give her more credit than she deserves."

"It was wrong. It could have destroyed everything! Everything you've been grooming me for since I was born could have come apart."

"Did she tell you what happened earlier in the garage? Did she tell you how she walked in on me burning those parts the two of you hid? Did she tell you how I said that destroying her could solve at least half of my problems but that I didn't do it because it would hurt you? I keep her around, I tolerate her _for you_! Just like everything else I do is for you."

"No, not for me."

Her jaw dropped, stunned by his comment, but before she could respond he continued.

"What you do... what _we _do, it's not about you, me, Cameron, Derek or anyone else as individuals. It's for the idea of General John Connor, the messiah figure, the great leader. That's a concept that people rally behind. That's not John- the man. That's not _me_.

"We're far beyond the point where there is any argument to be had over how important you are. You don't have the choice not to accept what's coming. Remember what you told me when she first showed up? 'I'm not strong enough.' 'I'm not _that _guy.' 'I can't do it.' 'Stop it for me, mommy!'" She'd been cruel to the girl, and as much as it pained her it was time to be cruel to him.

"Things change. I _have _accepted it! But you won't let me! You say everything you do is for me when in reality everything you do keeps me from becoming what I have to be!"

"You can't have it both ways- either you can do it or you can't. Up until now you've insisted that you can't. So who is more of a man, you or that kid who stopped me from smashing 'Uncle Bob's' chip?"

"If you want me to be a leader, then let me lead."

"A leader doesn't ask permission to lead."

The two sat in an uncomfortable silence for a time before he stood up and returned the chair to the spot he'd taken it from.

"We're leaving early tomorrow," she said. He didn't bother to turn back to her, opting instead to simply leave the room without another word.

She'd thrown down the proverbial gauntlet, told him that a leader doesn't ask for permission. Something inside told her that he was going off to ponder that comment and that the next time the two of them butted heads he was going to emerge the victor.

That meant that she had only one option left. She reached over to her side table and picked up her cell phone, calling one of the very few people whose phone numbers she had memorized.

"I'm sorry for calling at this hour, but I need to see you. _John _needs to see you- tomorrow."

* * *

03.21.2009 | 01:47 | AM | PST

* * *

"Thank you for this, Lydia. You are an excellent artist," Cameron said as the night librarian and art student laid out the almost perfect drawing before the two of them. She'd described her to the artist in such a way that she wouldn't appear too menacing. Her face, while it was an uncanny resemblance, had a look of serenity about it rather than the severity it would display 'in the flesh.' Her hands were at her hips and she was posed such that she appeared to be looking out over a calm, country landscape.

A facial analysis deemed the sketch to match the features of the individual in question to **98.38%. **

Of course the artist knew nothing about the woman she'd drawn or Cameron's real reason for wanting her to do the sketch.

"Hey, I'm just glad to have a chance to practice! I'd love to draw your, 'like a sister' sometime. What are the chances that she'd be willing to come in with you one night?"

"She's not from around here and I don't get to see her very often. That's why I needed you to sketch her. I want to show her to someone and I don't have any pictures. Plus she has a stud-style nose ring, and I don't find them attractive at all."

"Oh, that's a shame- she's very pretty, just like you. I don't really care for nose rings of any kind either. And there's really no need to thank me; like I said I can use the practice. You're always bringing me donuts, so I'm glad I could do something for you for a change!"

"Well, thank you again. Excuse me, but I have research to do."

"You and your research. Good luck trying to get anything done on the Internet."

"What's wrong with the Internet?"

"Practically every website I've tried to visit has been unavailable since late this afternoon. They all seem to be getting hit with waves of denial of service attacks. At first I thought it was just my home ISP, but when I got here I found the same thing happening on the University's computers. Same thing on my cell phone. Most of my friends are having the same problem. One of them said there was a story on the news about cyber-attacks all along the west coast."

"I just used the Internet to find a phone number," she stated, leaving out the part about how she'd had to hack into a wireless carrier's secure website to do it. "I experienced no problems other than longer than normal connection times."

"Ah, well, maybe its cleared up. But the whole day I could hardly do anything."

"Thank you for telling me."

"No sweat, Cam! Hopefully it wont interfere with your... whatever it is you're researching. Have fun, and thank you again for helping me practice."

"You're welcome, Lydia. Maybe I will let you sketch me sometime. I think I might like to..."

"What?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking out loud."

"Oh, come on! I've been wanting to sketch you since you started coming in nights! What were you thinking?"

"I have a... friend..."

"Ok? I figured you did, even though you don't talk about yourself much."

"No, no I don't. That's why it's... awkward for me to discuss this."

"Talking about me sketching you is awkward?"

"Talking about anything with... anyone is awkward. I'm very introverted."

"Oh come on, you used to talk to Eric a lot when he was here!"

"Shop talk. He called it shop talk."

"Ha! He told me you were 'all business.' I'm guessing what you're having trouble with is 'girl talk.' That's hard to have with a guy, especially a guy who has the hots for you the way Eric did."

"Yes, Eric had 'the hots' for me. I didn't reciprocate."

"Don't feel bad. If someone doesn't do it for you they just don't do it for you. So you have a friend, and what does that have to do with me sketching you?

"The drawing would be a... gift."

"Oh. Ohhh. I'm guessing that this friend is... someone special?"

"Yes, he is someone special. He is someone who 'does it' for me."

"Really? Well you must think he's boyfriend material to go all out like this. You would want it to be a nude sketch then?"

"Yes."

"That's... interesting. Has he... is he anyone I know?"

"No. His name is John."

"John? Eric mentioned you talking about a John. He's not seen you... naked... before, has he?"

"Briefly."

"Well, well, well! I guess he's _more _than just boyfriend material."

"You could say that, yes. John _is _much more than just boyfriend material."

"You know, most people just use their cell phones these days for that kind of thing."

"Yes, it's called 'sexting.' I've never 'sexted' John. I only exchanged text messages with him for the first time tonight. What I have in mind... I've never done something like this before, and I want it to be... special."

"Wow, that's pretty romantic, Cam!"

"I hope John thinks so."

"Girl, I'm going to capture you in a way he'll never forget!" The art student flipped the drawing of the woman Cameron described over and wrote down what she assumed was her telephone number. "Give me a call sometime and we'll set a date for me to do the sketch."

"I'll do that. Thank you."

"Anytime, Cam, anytime!" Lydia replied with a smile as she slipped a pair of white ear buds into her ears, tapped a button on her digital music player and folded her sketchbook over to a new page to begin a new drawing.

Cameron returned he smile as she took the sketch in her hands and examined it again. She had no idea what, if anything, it would mean when he eventually confirmed that this was the individual he'd seen in his dream, but as humans would say it couldn't be a coincidence.

'She' had been described as "like a sister," and in a twisted way that's exactly what she was- an older sister for she was, in both Series and Model, Cameron's predecessor. Her Series designator was T-X, and her Model number was 714.

She was more commonly known as "The Terminatrix."

She folded the drawing and slid it into the interior pocket of her jacket and pushed aside the thoughts of her sister cyborg, refocusing the appropriate processes to considering the artist's comments about her lack of Internet service. If she was correct in her statement that most of her associates were having the same problems... This was a cause for concern. The media didn't typically report instances of cyber-warfare unless they happened on a massive scale.

Like they had on Judgment Day.

She quickly turned and made her way towards the library's computer lab, eager to validate the girl's claims while trying to ignore the new sensation of fear that was coming over her. As she walked she attempted to open a series of files with information about Skynet's first hours of activation when a warning indicator flashed across her HUD:

**] PROTECTED/EXTENDED MEMORY VIOLATION**

She stopped in her tracks wearing a look of confusion that would have been obvious to any observer were there any present at this late hour...

...this late hour...

The thought seemed to "stick" in her memory, somehow causing all her higher functions beyond her motor skills to lock up. The only thing her cognitive processor could focus on was a... distant memory- the sound of her own voice as she sung a lyric:

_"...the hour's getting late..."_

Without willing it her HUD emphasized the time/date marker in the corner of her vision at the thought of the time. In short order the entire HUD became distorted and filled with static, further confusing its owner. She glanced over her shoulder, hoping Lydia wasn't paying attention. Fortunately, she was lost in her sketching and her music. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, Cameron quickly closed the distance between herself and the lab, desperately trying, and failing, to command her visual processor to switch from the use of her optical array to her synthetic eyes.

No sooner had she stumbled through the door to the lab when an intense wave of dizziness overtook her. In short order she began to lose control of her motor functions. She collapsed to her knees as the HUD began flashing violently, almost completely useless. The only thing that was clearly displayed was the repeated flashing of the never before seen **MEMORY VIOLATION **error. Unable to see with her cybernetic vision or her synthetic eyes she felt about her for a chair or the edge of a desk or anything she could use to help pull herself up.

It was a futile effort as she finally lost all control over her body and fell to the floor.

Then a... feeling... of familiarity came over her and she remembered a sensation- pain... burning... something, a cinder from a fire... a _campfire _had burned her arm. The digital confusion that was her HUD disappeared completely and a full-sensory hallucination overcame her, playing itself out before her cybernetic mind's eye just like she'd experienced the day she'd lived as Allison...

* * *

**TIME INDETERMINATE**

* * *

The spot was a secluded campground in the San Gabriel Mountains, just north of the Mount Wilson Observatory. The young couple had stopped there before moving on to enjoy a quiet weekend trying to forget for a moment that they were in their separate lives an NFL Quarterback and a Hollywood Actress.

So far, it had been the _perfect _getaway. All except for... the girl couldn't quite put her finger on it, but her fiancée seemed off. He'd never said anything about having a thing for astronomy. Out of the blue he'd wanted to stop at the observatory and use its telescopes to... observe. He'd been particularly interested in the constellations that made up the Zodiac, but the strange thing was that he didn't have any idea why he'd wanted to do it or why the Zodiac had captured his interest. Even stranger was that when she brought the subject up later in the evening he'd hardly remembered the trip and even quipped about not knowing what the names of the constellations of the Zodiac were.

But all that was behind them, and now they'd fallen into their usual routine of teasing each other about the "difficulties" associated with each others' profession. To the young girl's delight they were doing it around a warm campfire complete with roasted marshmallows.

"You know, I have my share of rough days," the man said.

"Oh, sure," his fiancée replied. "It must be tough picking up a $625,000.00 pay check for sixty minutes work."

"Listen to you! I love how you ignore the sixty plus hours of preparation it takes to get ready for those sixty minutes of work. And they're sixty tough minutes!"

"Cry baby."

"Oh I'm a cry baby?"

"You are. Crying about having rough days. You look such a wimp! Just like in that picture where the guy from the Raiders is tackling you."

"_Sacking_ me. He made me fumble too. His name is Charles Woodson and getting sacked by him was not fun, but we still won that game- that's why I'm worth the $625,000.00 per week. That's not counting playoffs, so your number is too high, Ms. D-List!"

She feigned a look of shock. "Well! I'm so sorry Mr. _Professor_! Poor little _Professor_ got sacked by Charles Woodson and fumbled, here's a few hundred thousand to make you feel better! The Patriots should sack _you._"

"Okay, I'll tell you what- next season _you _go out there and try it. James Harrison and Michael Strahan won't go easy on you because you're a girl. And look at you- manicured up to your neck. You've never done an honest day's work in your life!"

"Um, excuse me? I'll have you know that eighteen hour days on set are much more difficult than getting sacked by Charles... Harrison or Strahan or whoever."

"Oh, right. Eighteen hour days for as long as it took to film... how many episodes was it before that show got canceled- seven?"

She responded by throwing a marshmallow at the man, displaying a look of mock indignation. "It was fifteen episodes, you jerk! _And_ a movie! _And _I had to pose for the comic book artists!"

"Oh, that's right... Fifteen episodes. Seven was the number of people who saw the movie," he replied as he threw the marshmallow back at her. She caught it without effort. "Nice hands! Maybe we should let Randy Moss go and put you in his place."

"He's the only reason you have such good stats, as well as a respectable nickname... _Longshot._"

"Hey now, calling me _Longshot _is below the belt!"

"You're right. _Longshit _is so much more appropriate!"

"Oh, that is it!" The man reached over and grabbed the girl and pulled her to the ground.

"Wow, what a big, strong guy you are Mister Super Bowl MVP, picking on a girl less than half your size!"

"What are you gonna do about it?"

"Oh, yeah- like I could do anything about it, _LONGSHOT_! I'll tell you what, though, if you do what I think you're about to do you're going to be a longshot as far as getting me into bed tonight!"

"What are you suggesting? Do I look like the kind of guy who would do... _this!_" Holding her arms together with one hand he used his free one to reach down and tickle her stomach.

"AAHH! EHEHEHEHEEHEE," she screamed out, giggling and wiggling uncontrollably as his hands scrambled across her middrift. She tried to roll out from under him, but he was a good sixty or seventy pounds heavier than her. He held her tightly, but gently, and continued the tickling assault, mocking her as he went.

"What's wrong? You can't take a little tickling little Miss Cancelled After Seven Episodes!"

"GAHHHH!!!!!" She exclaimed as he brushed over her belly button, by far the most ticklish spot on her entire body. "FIFTEEN EPISODES, DAMMIT!" Her continual wiggling made it impossible for him to keep a grip on both her hands and once she was able to get one free she grabbed the bag of marshmallows, and started beating him with it.

"Hey, marshmallows are out of bounds! Where's the referee- illegal procedure!"

Laughing hysterically, she was able to maneuver out from under him, now pulling individual marshmallows from the bag and pelting him with them in rapid succession.

Undeterred, he stood and chased her around the fire. "Oh no, you're not getting away from me that easily!"

"What? What's that, jealousy in your voice Mr. Super Bowl MVP? Can't deal with the fact that I scramble better than you?"

He lunged toward her, trying to latch his arms around her, but she was too quick. "Big difference between scrambling to get away from me and scrambling to get away from Kawika Mitchell!"

"Kawakawaka who, _Longshot_?" She avoided another lunge, then threw the last of the marshmallows at him, hitting him right in the middle of his chest. "I thought you were quicker than this. No wonder you get sacked so much!"

"I'll have you know I'm one of the least sacked Quarterbacks in the league!" He deked to the left and she fell for it, not quick enough to avoid him as he dove to the opposite side and caught her legs and she tumbled down on top of him. She tried to roll away but he quickly grabbed her arms and again rolled himself on top of her.

"Gotcha! And it looks like you're out of ammo," he said indicating the now empty bag. "You know I was really looking forward to making s'mores."

"Oh please, Mr. Millionaire Several Times Over, I brought more than one bag."

"Smart and sexy. Sassy to; how did I ever get so lucky?"

"You haven't gotten lucky yet. And if you tickle me again you're going to be an even _longer _shot."

"Well, in that case..." He pulled her to her feet and guided her back to the logs they'd been sitting on. "How about a little music?"

The girl's face lit up as the man reached for a shiny, well-maintained acoustic guitar that had been just out of sight. "Are we going to sing... _the song_?"

"Do you want to sing _the song_?"

"That depends- which version?"

"We have to do the classic Dylan. You know this, it's like a law."

"I know nothing of the kind! Besides, I think I like the Jimi Hendrix version best. The Dylan and Dave Matthews versions are too slow. And you do such a great Hendrix impersonation."

He laughed. "All I need is a headband and a wig. Alright, Hendrix version it is. Alternating lyrics and verses, like usual?"

"Of course!"

He ran the pick across the strings once, then began the song's opening solo with practice born of a long love affair with the song. The two of them had done this before- she would always start by singing the _first_ line, and he would follow in sequence until they switched at the beginning of the next verse. The chorus they would sing together.

_"There must be some kind of way out of here..."_

"Said the joker to the thief..."

_"There's too much confusion..."_

"I cant get no relief..."

_"Businessmen they drink my wine..."_

"Plow men dig my earth..."

_"None will level on the line..."_

"Nobody of it is worth..."

Both smiled at each other as they chanted in unison, "Hey! Hey!"

"No reason to get excited-"

_"...the thief he kindly spoke."_

"There are many here among us..."

_"Who feel that life is but a joke... but uh!"_

"But you and I weve been through that-"

_"...and this is not our fate."_

"So let us not talk falsely now-"

_"...the hour's getting late.... _OUCH!"

The sound of the guitar ceased along with their singing and the man quickly moved to his fiance's side; "What happened?"

"Ow! I think a cinder flew out of the fire and hit me in the arm!"

He took her left arm in his hands and looked it over, taking note of the inflamed spot at the top of the underside of her forearm. Gently, he rubbed the area. "You're right, but you shook it off before it was able to set. I know it stings, but it didn't do any permanent damage." He smiled at her, the look of pain still evident on her face. "Let me kiss it, and make it better."

When he did a feeling of panic came over her and she yanked her arm away, sliding across the ground to get away from him as she screamed, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

* * *

03.20.2009 | 1:56 | AM | PST

* * *

The scene that had played out before her vanished before she realized that it was _she _that was screaming for the unknown man not to touch her, rather than "Allison."

In a matter of seconds the static and distorted text that had filled the HUD only... **00:47** seconds earlier, according to her BIOS clock, disappeared and the system went through a reinitialization sequence. As it did a series of front-to-rear and side-to-side scans of her body, complete with analysis of her synthetic skin and organic system flashed before her- scans she'd never seen before. They came and went too quickly for her to analyze and she couldn't call up any reports that pointed to them. Something seemed very wrong about them, but without being able to view them she couldn't determine what it was.

More troubling was what she'd seen during the hallucination. This wasn't supposed to be possible, and yet this was the second time she'd had what humans would refer to as an out-of-body experience. The last time she'd not remembered many of the details, just enough to remember that she was talking to a human resistance fighter who looked just like her and whose name was Allison Young. And she'd remembered a few details of the girl's life- her mother's name for one. In her cybernetic amnesia she'd called "her" mother- Claire Young, but the woman didn't know her. She'd told her that she didn't have a daughter, _yet. _But now...

Then she realized what was happening, in part.

Something had changed- something in history, and the memory had caught up with her resulting in two different memories of the same event- just like the Doctor said would happen. Where she'd originally made that phone call and learned that Claire Young, hadn't yet delivered her baby, Allison, she now remembered a _very _different conversation:

_**"Who is this?"**_

_**"Mom, it's me- Allison!"**_

_**Silence. **_

_**"Mom?"**_

_**"Listen to me, whoever you are- I don't know why you're doing this. I'm sure that awful Sam put you up to it, but it doesn't matter. Let me make something very clear to you so that you can make it very clear to him. Allison does not want to see him!"**_

_**"What? Mom, this is Allison-"**_

_**"STOP CALLING ME THAT! I just spoke to Allison a few moments ago! She's shooting on location out of the country! I don't know where he found a girl that sounded just like her, but what you're doing is harassment! If it doesn't stop I am going to file a restraining order against him, and I'm going to find out who you are and file one against you! Don't you ever call here again, and tell that man to leave my daughter alone!"**_

'Sam.'

Even now, not a full minute after the experience the memories were fading, somehow being pulled back into the **EXTENDED/PROTECTED **memory that was locked off to her, she couldn't remember much about him, the mystery man who was _not _John Connor and who had no business being alone with her, let alone putting his hands on her or kissing her.

But her new memories of Allison's phone call to her mother were not fading. She knew the temporal mechanics involved- even though she originally didn't experience them, they were just as real as what she did experience. And because of someone's manipulation the new memories were now reality. Allison wasn't a soon-to-be born baby, but evidently a young woman who had been involved with... _Sam_, whomever he was.

There were any number of things that her logical, rational cybernetic mind should be analyzing about what she'd seen, and yet the though foremost in that mind was how much she disliked the idea of anyone other than John being so close to her.

She ran through a list of her active processes, finding too many of them caught up in these new feelings she had for her benefactor. There was too much to do to allow these lapses in concentration to continue... _right now_. She looked about herself and saw that she was still doubled-over on the floor. Fortunately for her Lydia was still too caught up in her music to hear the female Terminator's outcry, which had to have traveled beyond the small computer lab- even with the door shut. The earlier feeling of dizziness gone, she stood up and did a damage control check. Finding no damage to her endoskeleton and only slight bruising to the skin about her right knee and elbow she stepped over to the row of computer terminals that she'd be using to do her research, still grappling with that **0.01% **of her available system resources that refused to be directed away from the new emotional core that was forming somewhere within her.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

Special thanks again to JMHthe3rd for his help cleaning up plot details and TaleWeaver for beta reading!

By popular demand Leoben returns in the next chapter!


	9. Chapter 8

* * *

03.21.2009 | 2:39 | AM | PST

* * *

She had a routine; first, she would check popular search engines for recent use of any of a thousand different words and terms that could relate to Skynet, Judgment Day, John or Sarah Connor or any of their aliases, Kaliba and any person listed in her vast memory of people who were part of the Resistance or who had a hand in creating Skynet. If nothing of consequence was found in that search, she would move on to private databases that contained financial information for any one of those individuals, or a related entity such as Desert Canyon Heat and Air. Then she would use her considerable skills at manipulating the World Wide Web to find any government resource attached to it that had new information on a subject she felt was important to her mission.

By using her skills to the fullest in tandem with three different workstations in the library's private, and at this hour deserted, computer lab she would be able to run through the entire routine in just over an hour.

Unfortunately the effects of the cyber-attacks that brought the Internet to a near standstill all along the West Coast for most of the previous day were still being felt. More than an hour had passed and she was still only a third of the way through her list of scheduled tasks, a list that had grown to include gathering data on said attacks.

Analyzing the private correspondences of important Silicon Valley IT analysts, media reports, and random bits of internet traffic, Cameron determined that the attacks had been sophisticated and calculated, dispersing through cyberspace in a pattern reminiscent of the attacks that heralded Judgment Day- too reminiscent to think that the two sets of attacks were unrelated. Insidious code, delivered through e-mail attachments and infected hyperlinks, was executed on an indefinite amount of personal computers. The executable would run in the background and, unlike most forms of spyware, it wouldn't consume so much of an individual computer's resources for its operator to notice- unless he or she was looking for it. When enough machines were infected the individual ISPs would be overwhelmed with requests for bandwidth and lose their ability to initiate Border Gateway Protocol, the primary pathways for Internet traffic, between themselves and the various Internet Exchange Points scattered across California and Washington.

What Lydia and her friends, as well as Internet users along the entire length of the West Coast, experienced were the effects of Stage One of the original attacks. She still couldn't access most of the specific information that had once been available to her regarding the forty-eight hours preceding Skynet's hostile takeover of the United States nuclear arsenal, for reasons still unknown despite running another set of intensive diagnostics. She did, however, remember that once whomever was responsible had isolated the region from the rest of the Internet they'd gone on to Stage Two- the delivery a polymorphic virus that crippled all digital telecommunications in that region. The process would repeat itself, over and over again until no part of the Earth was left unaffected. When Skynet went live it had a backdoor into any infected computer connected to the Internet- some 90% of them worldwide, and almost no other cyber-traffic to contend with. It was a worldwide version of the ARTIE system: an eye in every webcam, an ear in every microphone and processing power in multiples of thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, beyond what was provided to it by its creators, whomever those creators were in this reality.

As of yet no reports of a large scale viral infection had been reported. That meant that either no such virus had been unleashed or it was stealthier than it had been in the prior version of history. If the former, why stop at Stage One? If the latter...

She didn't want to consider that option, for it would lead to further reflection on the revised memory of the enigmatic Allison and the mysterious "Sam."

Unpleasant wasn't strong enough of an adjective to describe the feeling of... was it disgust? Revulsion? Human men other than John had touched her before- Generals Perry and McClane as well as Kyle Reese in the future... and Derek Reese and Eric Lush in the present. Of course she knew none of those men had ever touched her in what could be described as a 'romantic' way as _Sam_ had attempted to... _No_! She had to terminate this line of thinking and fight with her processes to remember that it wasn't _her _that the mystery man had been touching but _Allison_.

The effort was strenuous. Her system resources were already taxed with the effort of assimilating a myriad of data from the Internet, maintaining normal system functions _and _running yet another diagnostic in order to gain access to what she was sure was a large cache of memory buried beneath an increasingly complex encryption scheme. It was enough to accept that there was another party manipulating history without dwelling further on questions she couldn't answer.

An indicator appeared on her HUD as the thought streamed through her neural network; it was a schedule of active processes similar to a Task Manager in present-day computer operating systems. Her attention was drawn to the final item on the list as the font flashed between bold and standard intensity as if she needed more of a reminder of its existence:

**] - UNKNOWN PROCESS - | 1883 | 0.0001 | 00:000:06:32:37**

It had no name that she was aware of. It was simply referred to as **System Process 1883**; it had consumed the exact same amount of her active neural net resources, **0.01%,** from the time it became active six hours, thirty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago- the moment she'd sat down on John's bed and asked him... no, _begged _him, to tell her about his dream.

It baffled her how a bit of code that consumed so little of her CPU's processing power could distract her so much. More disconcerting was that the unknown process which she was certain was in some way connected to her emerging emotions was causing her to be distracted by something... _someone _other than John.

She decided that she'd spent too much time fighting the process. Turning to the workstation that was the least occupied by open databases and web searches she opened a new window in the browser and set the mouse pointer over the Google-search field. If she could find out who "Sam" was she may be able to determine why she'd relived Allison's memory of him. The details of the memory had become difficult to recall, but there were certain terms she remembered and committed to her active memory.

Among them was the word "quarterback."

Her own internal memory was able to tell her that it was an offensive position in the game of American Football. She input the terms **"Sam" **and **"quarterback" **into the search field.

_"The Patriots should sack _you," Allison had mocked. She added the term **"Patriots"** to her search. With no prompting, her HUD displayed a glossary of terminology relating to American Football, highlighting the term **"SACK:" **

**] IN AMERICAN AND CANADIAN FOOTBALL, THE SACK OCCURS WHEN THE QUARTERBACK IS TACKLED OR RUN OUT OF BOUNDS BEHIND THE LINE OF SCRIMMAGE BEFORE HE CAN THROW A FORWARD PASS.**

She added that term as well.

_"His name is Charles Woodson and getting sacked by him was not fun..."_

Finally, she added the name **"Charles Woodson" **to the field.

**|_SEARCH_|**

**-----**

**_Patriots_ Tickets - Cheap New England _Patriots_ Football Tickets**

Late in the fourth quarter, _Patriots quarterback_ _Sam_ Anders was sacked by his former Michigan teammate _Charles Woodson_. In the course of the _sack_, **...**

**ESPN 25 - 48: 'Tuck' play spurs _Patriots_ to OT playoff win**

At that precise moment, he is hit and sacked by blitzing cornerback _Charles Woodson_. **...** On the _Patriots_' sideline, Anders peers at the giant video screen at the **...** the field and announces, "The _quarterback's_ arm . . . was coming forward . **...** it appears he is trying to pull the ball back to reload or take a _sack_. **...**

**Anders Religious Conversion? | BNET**

SAN MATTEO - Amid rumors and speculation **...** the star _quarterback_'s stock continues to plummet **... **rumors ranging from a supposed religious conversion to alcoholism to drug-induced paranoia **... **television actress Allison Young **... **his mother's death only three days after the heartbreaking Super Bowl loss **... **at the New York home of college roommate Galen **...**

**AFC & NFC Conference Championships: _Patriots_ vs. Chargers, Packers ****...**

Subscribe to Every Morning _Quarterback_ **...** the season TD-pass record-holder (_Sam_ Anders), the season _sack_ **...** Led by the 2007 NFL MVP, QB _Sam_ Anders, New England seems capable **...** He will go against one of the best corner tandems in the league in Al Harris and _Charles Woodson_, who excel in man-to-man. **...**

**Keys to victory against the Packers**

Nov 17, 2006 **...** Corners Al Harris and _Charles Woodson_ are both tough, physical guys who'll want to **...** Perhaps a strip-_sack_, a pick, a long touchdown pass, **...** _Patriots quarterback_ _Sam_ Anders and Packers cornerback _Charles Woodson_ were **...**

T**uck rule game - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia**

In the play, Raiders' cornerback _Charles Woodson_ sacked _Patriots_' _quarterback_ _Sam_ Anders, which in turn, caused a fumble that was eventually recovered by **...**

**NFL REFS SUCK - HISTORY**

**...** cornerback _Charles Woodson_ sacked _Patriots quarterback_ _Sam _Anders, **...** no- _sack quarterback_ Step 1: After taking the snap, QB steps back and cocks arm **...**

**NFL Replay: Anders Retires at 32!**

_Patriots quarterback_ _Sam _Anders **... **firestorm of controversy **...** after being sacked five times **...** a dismal performance **... **his mother's bedside only three days later **... **announced through his agent that he was retiring** ... **age of 32 **... **drunken rage outside his parents' San Matteo, CA home **... **chasing former fiancee', actress Allison Young **... **filed a restraining order **...** _Charles Woodson_. Herm Edwards **...**

**Playoff musings VI - Holbrook - Raiders-Pats**

Tough sledding for Raiders as _Patriots_ make miracle comeback **....** Bresnahan as LB Elijah Alexander and DT Chris Cooper bust through to _sack _Anders. **...** on that last drive that he deserves to be the _Patriots_' _quarterback_ next season. **...** On 1st-and-10 at the Oakland 42, Anders is hit by CB _Charles Woodson_ on a blitz. **...**

**Once a "Longshot," Now a "Professor!"**

Jun 25, 2007 **...** _Sam_ Anders, QB, _Patriots_: An academic powerhouse once considered a _"Longshot" _to make the team at Michigan** .....** "He's gotten so little respect," said teammate Randy Moss. "I respect him more than any player in the game." **...** who insisted that his quarterback be referred to as _"Professor Anders" _rather than his college nickname **.....**

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**-----**

_'Sam Anders.' _

To verify that this individual was the same man she'd seen in Allison's memory, she clicked the **Images **link just below the search field. A series of sports-related thumbnails filled the screen, the first one depicting a man in a white shirt and silver helmet about to collide with a man in a similar silver helmet and a blue shirt. She clicked on the picture.

Sure enough, the larger image of the man behind the face mask with the name "ANDERS" across the back of his jersey with the number **12 **prominently displayed was the same face she'd seen earlier; though he wasn't an unattractive man by human standards and though it was not _her _memory but Allison's her arm twitched involuntarily at the thought of him bearing down on her, attempting to _kiss _her! Were any man _other than John _to attempt such an act she would surely disregard any prohibitions the General had placed on her regarding the taking of a human life and promptly snap the offender's neck.

Again, her left arm began to shake at her side. She quickly seized it with her other hand, grasping it with enough force to break it were it bone rather than hyperalloy. It was strange; her synthetic nerves were reporting a sensation of pain more intense than she'd ever felt, but she couldn't let the arm go. It didn't make sense... John's earlier repair had been flawless, so why was she continuing to experience these glitches? As much as she wanted to run another scan of her arm's servo-motor assembly she knew that it wouldn't show any physical malfunction. She'd kept a detailed log of all the instances of the glitch, noticing not for the first time that each was associated with her... _feelings _for John. She released the arm and let it fall back to the desk, then closed her eyes and drew in a deep, unneeded breath. In her study of dance she found that several moments of deep breathing while keeping her eyes closed served to refocus her- even a cybernetic organism needed to take a moment to refocus from time to time.

After letting a few moments passed she wiggled the fingers in her left hand. With a fully controlled motion she slid her fingers across the keyboard again and resumed typing, each keystroke perfect. She noted the name Allison Young in the third link on the list and added both names to her database of present day targets. She would watch for reports of their names in the media and she would gather personal information on them, inasmuch as it existed, though doing so could prove difficult seeing as how they were both regarded as celebrities.

_'Celebrities,' _she thought, focusing on another source of information. She'd made a habit of browsing celebrity news and information web pages as well as social networking sites. Humans were prone to gossip, and digital cameras were considered an "essential" accessory, especially to women. Anytime something out of the ordinary happened in the proximity of a human with a camera it was almost assured that pictures or video of the event would end up posted to a website such as MySpace, Facebook or YouTube. Her curiosity regarding the earlier event satiated she began querying the aforementioned sites, not expecting to find what she was about to find.

* * *

03.21.2009 | 2:51 | AM | PST

* * *

He came to in a daze, not at first realizing that he was in a seated position, his arms and legs were secured by a chain and he was in the backseat of a moving car rather than the crummy warehouse apartment he'd been calling home since the night he'd delivered Catherine Weaver's "merchandise."

No, the first thing he realized was that his face and shirt were covered in now dried blood.

His _own_ blood.

The second thing he noticed was the pain between his eyes. And all around his eyes. And all through his head.

Then he remembered the man at the warehouse, more specifically being floored by him. No, more like running straight into his outstretched fist and feeling like he'd run into a steel support beam. But why had he charged at the guy? Why had the guy been there in the first place?

_"Your wife... was most co-operative. It was a shame for me to have to kill her."_

That's when he realized where he was, and who was driving the car. With rage in his eyes and in his heart he lunged forward, not realizing the true nature of the car's driver...

...only to be restrained, his hands able to reach out just enough that there was an inch of space between them and the headrest of the drivers' seat.

"Please, Mr. McCarthy, let's not have any sudden outbursts like that. You're restrained quite expertly, and I assure you you'll only hurt yourself if you try that again."

"I swear to you, I'm going to find a way out of these chains and then I'm-"

"No, Mr. McCarthy," the driver interrupted, "you're not going to find a way out of those chains. You'll only be released when I decide to release you."

"Fuck you, you murdering psychopath!"

"That attitude is most unhelpful considering your life depends on your cooperation."

"Is that what you told my wife before you killed her? How did you do it, huh? Did you make her suffer? Did you..." he couldn't bring himself to ask if his captor had sexually assaulted his wife or, God forbid, his daughter... '_Oh God, Zoe...'_

"No, Mr. McCarthy, I did not make your wife suffer. They were shot execution style through the head. They never knew what hit them. And no, I did not assault your wife sexually, nor your daughter."

It was small comfort.

"Tell me about Ed Winston," the driver went on, seemingly uninterested in further discussing the murders of Stella and Zoe.

"Eddie... Eddie's dead. Christ almighty, did you kill him _too_?"

"No, Mr. McCarthy, I did not kill Ed Winston. He was killed by Sarah Connor," the driver replied, meeting his eyes in the rear view mirror for the first time in the conversation, taking note of the way his eyes widened at the mention of the crazy woman's name. "I see you're familiar with her. Good, that saves us both from the cycle of lies."

"W- What?"

"The cycle of lies, Mr. McCarthy. You reacted physically to the name Sarah Connor, which means you know who she is. Were I not to have noticed I would have asked you if you knew her, you would have falsely claimed that you didn't and I would have had to cause you further pain to force you to admit the truth. We've both been spared an inconvenience. Do you understand?"

McCarthy tried to ignore is kidnapper's psychobabble, as he wondered where it all went wrong. Looking back on his job offer from Desert Canyon, the chance to move to Charm Acres, the salary, the benefits- a voice in the back of his head told him it was all too good to be true, that there was a catch. Then he found out that Desert Canyon was really a front for a military contractor with some sort of black hat project. Then people started getting murdered, and he'd had the dumb luck to _not _be in the wrong place at the wrong time. "My God, weird flying machines, psycho women from hell, and a wise guy murdering my family. Just kill me and get it over with! I don't know what I could tell you about Ed or this Connor woman that you don't already know."

"You are lying."

Yes, he was lying, but there was no way that this guy could have known it, unless... "MAN I AM TELLING YOU-"

"You're telling me nothing but lies, Mr. McCarthy. I am very good at distinguishing truth from lies. I'll remind you again that your life depends on how well you cooperate with me."

"Bullshit! We both know you're going to kill me, no matter what!"

Again, the man met McCarthy's gaze in the mirror, briefly, then turned his head towards the passenger seat. He reached over and picked up a CD. "Recognize this?"

It was unmistakable, the cover showing Keanu Reeves grinning like an idiot while Cameron Diaz looked on, lovingly. It was the soundtrack to _Feeling Minnesota_.

It belonged to his wife.

"You bastard," he whispered as his eyes filled with tears.

The driver ignored the comment as he pulled the disc from its case and slid it into the car's CD player while George looked on, hoping against hope that it was scratched up to excessively to play and that he wouldn't have to hear...

- _Love is a burning thing; can change into a fiery ring_ -

"God, no," McCarthy cried out as the sound of Bob Dylan's voice filled the car, a voice that his wife loved so much...

- _Bound for wild desire... I fell into a ring of fire_ -

"Please," he begged. The man obviously knew his weaknesses.

- _I fell in to a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down and the flames went higher -  
- and it burns, burns, burns... the ring of fire... the ring of fire _-

"Tell me about Ed Winston, Mr. McCarthy."

"But I don't know anything about..."

The man reached for the volume dial and turned it clockwise.

- _They say that love is sweet... when hearts like ours meet -_

He tried, in vain, to cover his ears, the chains cutting into the flesh at his wrists as he strained against them.

- _I fell for you like a child; ohhhhhh, but the fire went wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiild -_

"OK STOP, I'LL TALK, I'LL TALK... WHATEVER YOU WANT," he screamed.

Smiling, the driver turned down the volume down to a very low level, though not low enough for McCarthy not to hear Dylan repeat the chorus a second time. "Ed Winston," the man prompted, "and Sarah Connor."

"She... she was poking around the warehouse, just days before everyone got killed."

"I'm aware of that, Mr. McCarthy. I'm also aware that she was 'poking around' Western Iron and Metal and that Mr. Winston confronted her and was ultimately killed by her."

"Yeah, well, what you don't know is that Ms. Weaver had Eddie do a special job for her," the widower responded.

"And the nature of this special job?"

"He was supposed to... He _did... _He shot that psycho-broad up with something, an injection of some kind. Supposedly it was some kind of tracking device. I thought the whole thing was crazy but... with the drones and all... Well, Ed called me that night, while he had her. She was unconscious and he had me get my laptop and load a map program. Then he told me how to pick up a signal and there it was. I didn't believe it at first, but after I found out he was dead I checked and the signal was still active and moving. I don't know anything else, I swear!"

A moment passed, then another. Soon five minutes had gone by before his captor spoke again; "I believe you."

McCarthy meekly responded, "You do?"

"Yes. Should I not?"

"I... no... I mean, yes! It's the truth, I swear."

"Yes, Mr. McCarthy, I was aware of all those details, so I know you were being truthful. Unfortunately you haven't told me anything I didn't already know, therefore I can't let you go."

"But..." Before he could respond further he noted for the first time where they were. The car had just pulled on to Route 1, just south of Pacific Heights High School. The driver turned the car into a small parking area on the side of the road nearer to the shore. There wasn't a street light for a ways in either direction, and the only structures were above them at the top of a steep hillside. Only the light of the car's headlights illuminated a small part of the sandy ground and the guardrail just beyond the hood of the car. Before McCarthy knew what was happening the car was parked and the driver was opening the rear door. The captive man resisted the urge to struggle, knowing the effort would be wasted as the bulk of his kidnapper loomed over him, releasing the locks that held his steel restraints to the car seat. When he was free, the taller man yanked his captive from the car with ease, dragging him across the ground in a way that frustrated all his attempts to steady himself or stand. When they reached the guardrail he got his first look over the edge- though poorly lit he could see the rocks more than one-hundred feet below them. As he was pulled to his feet he felt the chain slip around his neck. His wife's murderer, who had several inches in height on him, effortlessly pulled him off of his feet by the chain, and dangled him over the side of the ledge. He didn't know what terrified him more in that moment, the thought of choking to death or the thought of being broken on the rocks below.

"One last chance, Mr. McCarthy, is there anything else you want to tell me?"

He struggled to answer, his voice being choked off by the pressure of his own weight struggling against the chain about his neck. Mercifully, his torturer pulled him in slightly and allowed his feet to drop to the ground, though only the fore of his foot was touching land. While still holding him by the chain, his weight was no longer unsupported. He fought to get the words out as he caught his breath, "Eddie... he gave me something... a PDA... It was synced, somehow, with that stuff he shot the woman up with. He gave it to me."

"Sarah Connor is a very dangerous individual, Mr. McCarthy. It's very important that I find her. If you were to furnish me with that PDA I would be willing to... let you go."

George reached down to one of the pockets of his cargo pants, hoping that the device hadn't been lost or damaged when the man took him from the warehouse. A feeling of elation came over him when he pulled it from within.

"Had you given this to me back at the warehouse this whole incident could have been avoided, Mr. McCarthy. I do hope you learn from this experience. Activate the device and call up the tracking program. And if it is protected by a PIN or password..."

"Z-O-E. The password is... Zoe," he said, struggling not to lose his balance and find himself once again dangling from the chain. It never occurred to him to question how this person was able to manhandle him with such seeming ease.

The man reached out and took the PDA from him. He examined it for a few seconds before speaking again, "I'm sorry to have lied to you, Mr. McCarthy."

"W- what?"

"Your wife- and your daughter. I did not kill them."

"You didn't... Stella and Zoe are _alive_?"

"I never tracked them down. I was aware of their plans to meet you, but I made no move to stop them. I assume they're waiting for you to contact them," the man said sincerely, noting the complete change in his demeanor. "Save your elation for them, Mr. McCarthy," he added in an impassive tone.

"Please, man, you'll never hear from any of us again, we just want out of... whatever all of this is that Weaver has going on."

"I'm a man of my word, Mr. McCarthy. I promised that I would let you go if you cooperated. And you were more than cooperative," the man said, smiling.

Then he relaxed his hold on the chain.

George McCarthy's screams lasted only several seconds before his body slammed into the jagged rocks below. Though the T-888 knew no human could survive a fall from this height, his nature demanded that he glance over the ledge and perform a final scan of the body- just to be sure.

Satisfied that the man was deceased he returned to the car, retrieved his wireless phone and dialed Catherine Weaver's number.

"I assume you have a good reason for disturbing me at this hour, Joshua," she said in a tone that suggested irritation. It was irrational for the superior Terminator to behave that way when dealing with another one of her kind, but his was not to question.

"I've retrieved the PDA from Mr. McCarthy."

"That's very good, Joshua, but I find that I'm not all that interested in Sarah Connor right now," she replied.

This was beyond irrational, he reasoned. Were she to order it he could find the Connors this very night.

Before he could bring himself to protest she continued, "She has no qualms about killing our kind, and she's proven most effective at doing it in the past. But Humans... I've found that she doesn't care for combat when she's looking into the eyes of other Humans across the battlefield; the way she dealt with the unfortunate Mr. Winston was proof enough of that. Send the collaborators after her and her son. I want you to destroy that... filthy child. I want it done before the day is over, Joshua."

"Understood," he stated, though not truthfully. There were any number of things about her irrational order, as well as her behavior, he didn't understand.

"Tell me, how did you end up dealing with George McCarthy?"

"I let him go," he replied evenly, "just the way you suggested."

"That's... excellent, Joshua. Did you... _feel _anything?

He analyzed the entire situation. He'd followed the T-1001's orders to the letter, but... She'd told him that he would "enjoy" the act of killing were he to follow her orders: "toy" with the man, lie to him about killing his wife, use music to psychologically torture him before giving him the hope that he would be let go to rejoin his family only to be let go to fall to his death.

In actuality he'd found the whole scheme to be... inefficient. "No."

After a moment's silence she responded, "That's disappointing," and terminated the connection.

He didn't dwell on the oddity of her actions, not wanting to waste processing power looking for logic in the illogical; he simply set the phone down on the passenger seat, started the engine and pulled back out onto Route 1. For reasons that made no more sense than the actions of the T-1001 he turned the car's stereo back on.

- ..._I fell in to a ring of fire _-

* * *

03.21.2009 | 03:11 | AM | PST

* * *

Unknown to the T-888 he'd just been observed from afar- again.

Two men in dark suits sat in the front seat of a black, four-door luxury Sedan at the very top of a hill above the coastal highway. They'd been watching the abandoned warehouse when they received the call- the cyborg was on its way, and that they were to track it. The man in the driver's seat was holding a pair of night vision binoculars, while the man in the passenger seat held a recording device attached to an exterior microphone that had picked up audio of the entire event- even from almost a quarter-mile away.

It was so surreal, listening to the pitiful man beg for his life while hanging from a chain as the serene sound of waves crashing into the beach echoed in the background.

The man in the passenger seat was having a harder time dealing with the situation than his companion. "Did we just hear... what I think we heard?"

"Yes," the calm and collected man in the driver's seat responded. "We heard a robot jamming to _Ring of Fire_. How can anyone like the Dylan version of that song? It's so downbeat, there's no mariachi horns and that voice," he shuddered. "McCarthy's wife sure had lousy taste in music. Apparently the metal does too."

A look of shock came over the other man's face as he turned to the driver. "Are you listening to yourself? He just freaking dropped a guy _off a cliff_ and made a joke about 'letting him go!'"

The driver's response was droll; "All that means is that he's a fan of _Commando. _Can you really blame him? 80s action movie, Stallone, Vernon Wells, _Bill Duke! _Anything with Vernon Wells or Bill Duke is worth its weight in gold. You ever see _American Gigolo_?"

"You're not seriously joking about this, are you?"

"We can either laugh about it or cry about it. I choose to laugh about it," the driver replied calmly. "If you've got a better way to deal with this insanity I'm all ears."

"I'm thinking now might be a good time to... you know... get out?"

"You know as well as I do there's no getting out. You swallowed the red pill, just like I did. You can't go back and take the blue one. Besides, we're on the right side in all of this."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I trust the boss. He has a plan."

The man in the passenger seat was skeptical. "And that plan included sicking the 'Jits' on K.O.? You know that guy is dead. How does that fit in to the boss's plan?"

The driver laughed at the use of their partner's nickname. The lawyer thought too highly of himself, and he had a big mouth. Everyone in the organization, with the possible exception of his partner, knew that he wasn't long for this world. They all wanted to be the "lucky" one the boss ordered to put the man in his place. "K.O. was a two-timing piece of shit. If he could've gotten a better deal from Weaver he'd have ratted us all out in a heartbeat and we'd have ended up like those saps at the warehouse. _And _Kenny would still be dead. I have no problem with him getting dumped in a hole in the desert, and neither should you."

"I don't have a problem with K.O. getting wasted, the man was a pig. But if we have to worry about Weaver's goons _and _the boss-"

"We don't have to worry about the boss, not if we don't cross him the way K.O. and Winston and McCarthy did."

The passenger considered his partner's words for a moment, then asked, "So what do we do now?"

The driver smiled as he replied, "We do our jobs. We follow the metal and we watch," with an air of finality as he started the car. "And right now we call the boss and let him know that McCarthy just got 'let go.'"

* * *

03.21.2009 | 03:25 | AM | PST

* * *

There were three men, all dark-skinned. One was obviously recording the event with a video-enabled cellular phone while the other was taking still pictures with his own phone.

The third man was unconscious on the ground.

And he was naked.

Like many of the items displayed on the HUD, the probability tables that indicated the likelihood of getting a hit on the various items that she checked for during her trips to the library came up involuntarily- a bit of data that could be useful if it wasn't so distracting _or_ if she had the ability to control what information was displayed and when. Were she not using the HUD to observe three different monitors, each displaying rapidly opening and closing windows and all forms of data scrolling up and down the screens faster than she could blink, she would switch to the use of her "Human" eyes.

Getting a hit on terms related to the possible observance of a person from the future coming through a temporal displacement portal was low on those tables, and yet she was observing a video, posted to YouTube only a few days prior, that seemed to depict the aftermath of just such an event.

In broad daylight.

Such a scenario went against standard operating procedure for both Skynet _and _TechCom.

She paused all activities on the other two computers and focused on the video playing out on the screen directly in front of her:

"_Haha, nice! Cleavon, you just became the next big thing on the Internet," _said the man who wasn't recording the video.

The other man seemed to be more concerned with getting away from the scene of the 'crime.' "_Aiight, now we gotta get outta here. Before long someone's gonna be callin' the cops. We need to make ourselves scarce if we wanna hang on to Cleavon's cash!"_

"_There ain't no shortage of people who didn't like this chicken shit. Now, let's get while the gettin's good... wait up, man, give me one of those dollar bills."_

"_Dude, what the fuck? It's comin' outta your half."_

"_Yeah, yeah, yeah just give it to me! Here, Cleavon," _the man not recording the video took the dollar bill and stuffed it into the naked, unconscious man's mouth and took another picture with his phone. "_This'll be your cut!" _

"_Awww, shit!" That one's going on MySpace! Aiight man, let's get gone!"_

The video didn't give her much to work with; it was of too poor quality for even Cameron's eyes to make out the name of a street on a sign or an address on a building that could tell her where the video was filmed. The only clue it had given her was the first name of the victim- Cleavon.

She navigated through the web to a secure website attached to a Los Angeles Police Department database. This time she didn't have to call on any of her hacking abilities; she had valid login information for the site acquired on one of the occasions that she'd impersonated a police officer. It was a large and user-friendly database, intended for internal use. The website existed only to allow access by LAPD personnel when they were away from their desks. She executed a search for the name "Cleavon" in a time frame going back two weeks. While more than one man by that name had been arrested in that time it didn't take long to narrow the search; only one of them had been arrested for indecent exposure- a Cleavon Simmons had been taken into custody on March 13th. The notes attached to the file indicated that during his interrogation he claimed that a "naked white male" had assaulted him sometime between 5:00-6:00 PM that date and stolen his vehicle, as well as his clothes. The officer conducting the interrogation noted that Mr. Simmons, a man with an extensive history of abetting prostitution _and_ possession of stolen property, had neither revealed the make/model of the vehicle or elected to file a stolen vehicle report- likely because the vehicle had _already _been stolen. While stopping short of theorizing that the vehicle's original owner had stolen it back and humiliated him in retaliation, it was clear that the interrogator found the whole incident suspect.

Cameron found it hard to believe that either a Terminator, whether loyal to Skynet or the Resistance, or a human soldier would be so careless as to draw attention to themselves in so blatant a manner. But then it was also unlikely that either Skynet or TechCom would initiate a temporal incursion during the daylight hours. Both knew from experience that individuals arrived in the past at the same time of day they departed from. According to Simmons' criminal history his address was in Compton, a neighborhood of Los Angeles that saw a great deal of police action. While it was difficult to predict exactly where a displacement portal would open in the past the TDEs did have a programmable variable that allowed the user to select an area where they were likely to avoid detection.

Compton, and the surrounding neighborhoods, didn't fall into that category.

Examining the booking information again she found the address where the pimp had been arrested- Rosencrans Commons Apartments on Rosencrans Boulevard. She initiated a search of the address through Google Maps, not to find its exact location, but to find adjacent locations with exterior surveillance.

She wasn't disappointed by the results.

Right across the street there was a convenience store with an IP-Camera network. And only a few doors down on the same side of the street was the office of company that installed security systems- likely the people who set up the convenience store's cameras. Skynet had tracked down countless Judgment Day survivors and gathered intelligence on the early Resistance by using these web-anchored systems which gave a savvy intruder access not only to a live feed but files as far back as the attached hard drive or DVR had space to record.

It was the digital equivalent of having a shelf of VHS Cassettes available for anyone who asked.

Both the convenience store and the security installer had enough hard drive space to record farther into the past than she needed to look.

The first file she retrieved was from the convenience store. It was a full color recording, but it lacked an audio track. Fortunately, it was of higher quality than the YouTube video that caught her attention initially. Indeed, a "naked white male" had walked out into the street from an alley right next to the store- likely the place where the portal had opened. Her cybernetic vision enabled her to see the slight distortion that the camera had picked up around him- the remnants of a temporal distortion wave imperceptible to Human eyes. The man was stumbling, slightly- unsure of his steps, which signaled to Cameron that he was disoriented or in pain; this suggested he was human. The camera was stationary, so it was of limited usefulness. She moved on to another file, this one from the security office. It had a wider view of the street, one which included the pimp reclining casually against his car. Again she could see the time traveler approaching from the alley. This camera's resolution was a magnitude greater than the other, giving her a better view of the man's features.

He was healthy- far too healthy, in fact; the pallor of his skin suggested that his diet was good and he was slightly tanned, something that was impossible for people in her time. She noted the lack of scars on the body. Life in the future was difficult, and no Human soldier of the Resistance was spared a fleshly reminder of the horrors of war. If that was her gauge, this man was no soldier. While his eyes were those of a predator the rest of his countenance suggested that he was a relaxed and patient individual; he seemed to not care about the fact that he was naked- a naked white man walking along a street in a primarily African-American neighborhood. Watching him interact with the pimp it seemed he was even _joking _about his nudity!

She could tell the pimp was becoming agitated, but before he could take action the time traveler leveled him with a near-perfect punch to the face. While not moving with a cyborg's speed, the man's reflexes were visibly quicker than those of an average Human... or even an above average Human.

She watched him pull the unconscious man to his feet and shove him into the car, obviously using it for cover to take his clothes. Again, the way he went about it suggested that he was human, but there was something about him... He was too smooth, too methodical in his movements. He lacked the rigidity of a machine, but not the logical motion. Before long he exited the car, now dressed, and pulled the unconscious man from the car as quickly as he'd thrown him in. Instead of just letting the pimp fall he took the time to lay him gently on the ground, which suggested concern for his welfare, and he had a humorous look on his face as he... was he talking to an unconscious man? She watched with growing curiosity as he dug through the pockets of the suit jacket the pimp had been wearing while standing over him. He examined both a cell phone and keyless remote that he'd taken from the pockets in apparent confusion- especially when it came to the keyfob. After a few moments, more than it should have taken, the car pulled away, and she terminated the feed.

The man's arrival, as well as his behavior and appearance posed any number of questions. She would have preferred he be an identifiable Human soldier or an easily identifiable Terminator. While she continued to be certain he was _not _a Terminator, she was also certain that he was not affiliated with the Resistance.

With no prompting, her HUD displayed her BIOS clock time- **3:50 AM**.

_"...come home to me," _she recalled John saying on the phone earlier. Yes, she'd spent more time away from him than she'd wanted to. And he would need to be told about the time traveler, as well as her... experience.

Then her HUD locked onto a set of links that appeared as part of her final search. This particular search was related to the name of an entity that had an even lower probability of generating a result than her earlier search relating to time displacement; it was something that should no longer exist.

_"Cyberdyne Systems."_

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

Special thanks go out to Taleweaver, the greatest Beta an author ever had! Get well soon! Also thanks to Bryan0711 for his efforts.

The Google search that Cameron does is exactly what would come up if you entered the terms Brady, quarterback, Patriots, sack and Charles Woodson, each in their own sets of quotes, in your browser's Google Search bar. I changed "Brady" to "Sam" since Sam Anders is taking the place of Tom Brady in our world as well as making one or two edits to give the list some flavor. Of course, because of this websites silly way of rendering pages the whole search looks different than it did when I created it. Instead of looking almost exactly like a Google search would practically everything but the text had to be eliminated. Does anyone know why its impossible to post anything that looks like a link?

A funny coincidence- Michael Trucco, the actor who portrayed Sam Anders in the reimagined _Battlestar Galactica _is a native of San Matteo, CA as is New England Patriots Quarterback Tom Brady!

I decided to continue the longstanding Schwarzenneger/Stallone goof of one making reference to the other in their movies (think Stallone actually being the T-101 in Schwarzenegger's _Last Action Hero _or Sly and Sandra Bullock talking about how Congress amended the constitution to allow "Governor Schwarzenegger" to run for, and win, the presidency in _Demolition Man_. Here I insinuated that it was Sly who played the lead in _Commando _rather than "Ah-nuld." I don't know if you caught in Chapter 4, but I referred to the Governor of California as "Governer Bustamante," i.e., Cruz Bustamante, the guy who he beat in the recall election and, I think, his re-election. It would have been so funny had they done that in the show rather than having some no name be the Gov. in 2010. (Self Made Man)

I know I promsied Leoben's "return" in this chapter and that his appearance on YouTube (I told you I had a plan for that all along) doesn't really count. These scenes ended up being longer than I planned and I had to reshuffled, so his first _real _appearance since Chapter 3 is getting pushed back. Rest assured, after eight days of rest (remember he "landed" on March 13th) and relaxation (yeah right) he's ready to jump back into the mix.


	10. Chapter 9

* * *

**JANET N5175U, ON APPROACH TO TONOPAH ELECTRONIC WARFARE RANGE (AKA "AREA 52")  
RESTRICTED AIRSPACE, GRID R-4809  
2009080 | 1230 | ZULU**

* * *

Bryan Castor, First- Lieutenant-USAF, was in disbelief as he stared at the no more than 160 characters of text displayed on the screen of his laptop. "You've gotta be shittin' me," he whispered, more to himself than the man seated next to him in the aisle seat of the first class area which was reserved for Officers and 'special' civilian personnel.

"No, my friend, I am not shitting you," replied _former _USAF Second-Lieutenant now "civilian" programmer Jack Hudson. "A 'Ping -t' command is all it took to slow the Internet to a crawl and in some cases render it completely useless."

"A ping flood," Castor stated, still not believing what he was seeing. "Every exchange point west of Las Vegas was taken out by a _ping flood_? That just can't be! Every computer on the West Coast would had to have pinged its Internet Service Provider at once!"

"About 70% actually, according to our logistics people," Hudson replied while flagging down the flight attendant in an effort to have his coffee mug refilled for the third time. "This is the sort of thing Gabriel warned us about."

Castor wanted to ignore the allusion but found himself unable; like his partner he knew that Thomas Gabriel had been right all along - something like this _could_ happen. Only this time it didn't seem to be happening just because someone wanted to prove it could be done. "Alright, 70%. So how did they all pick up the same virus?"

"Virus? What the hell, man?" He turned his attention to the attractive redhead now leaning over him, the name "VANESSA" displayed on her name-tag; "Ma'am, I think you need to bring my friend here a cup of your strongest blend."

After topping off Hudson's cup she focused on Castor, "Sir?"

He considered it while looking out the window facing east as the first light of dawn began to peak over the horizon. He'd spent the better part of the night awake, as did Hudson and every programmer attached to the project - all three shifts of them. He imagined the same thing was going on at each of the installations spread across the Nellis Test and Training Range.

'Except for Groom Lake,' he thought. No one ever slept at Groom Lake.

So many people moved in and out of the various parts of the complex on a normal day; three times that number were in transit now. He doubted there was a single "JANET" transport that wasn't airborne. And they were known for their fantastic coffee, as attested to by the fact that his partner was now devouring his third cup in twenty minutes. 'Why not?' "Your strongest stuff please, ma'am," he finally replied while sparing a smile for the pleasant looking woman.

'Vanessa,' responded by giving him an ear-to-ear smile of her own, one that made him wonder how it was possible for anyone to be so chipper at such an early hour, before going to fetch the beverage.

"There, get some some joe in you and get your head screwed on right. _Virus_? I know we've been at this all night long but we can't go into this meeting and give up bad information or the General is going to have our asses for breakfast!"

"I don't think the people we're going to be briefing care about how a virus differs from a logic bomb," Castor retorted. While both fell under the category of malware, the simple line of code displayed on his screen was far more insidious than the typical virus. For one, something like it would be hard for the average person to spot. He hadn't bothered to ask who among their team found it or how they did. He made a mental note to do just that.

"They might not, but its important that they know how low-tech this thing really is. The code didn't do anything but rename a common executable and replace it with a batch file with a range of IP addresses to ping and instructions to do it in the background. No one noticed anything because no command interpreter window popped up," Hudson came back with.

"Right, right, and running the ping command in the background isn't going to use up enough resources for anyone to notice a lag. Christ, we learned how to make batch files and logic bombs in fucking middle school!"

"Yes we did- on Commodore 64s and TRS-80s," Hudson replied, while trying to stifle a yawn. "Hell, I was using an Atari ST the first time I did something like this! The execution... that part wasn't sophisticated at all, but the delivery... There was something more to it than bad hyper-links and infected e-mail attachments, but exactly _what_ that something was I don't know - neither do our people back at Cheyenne Mountain."

"And the one thing we _don't _know is the one thing that everyone we're going to be briefing is going to want to know," Castor replied. "By the way, who figured it out?"

"I think it was your girlfriend," Hudson responded with a chuckle.

"Whaaa... Who?"

"The new girl, the one who manages to make a standard issue calf-length Air Force female Officers' skirt seem like the single most alluring piece of clothing ever invented!"

"Ah," Castor grunted, realization hitting him. "'Cain' you mean." She was new, a transfer so the story went, one who'd only showed up a day or two earlier. His friend was right, the young female officer _did_ make the uniform did look fantastic, and he'd always had an eye for ladies in uniform. She had the most piercing and intense eyes he'd ever seen, and she was tall - _very _tall, a good 5'11 if not taller. Castor loved tall women. In addition she had the most perfect hair he'd ever seen. Regulation styles for women tended to be drab, and he'd never been a fan of the 'bun,' but she made it work. Somehow the woman found a way to pull every strand tight to her scalp - not one was ever out of place. An almost imperceivable smile formed on the Officer's face. "Any idea what her first name is?"

"Not a clue. Aside from tech talk after pointing out how an executable on a test machine had a .BAT extension rather than .EXE the girl hasn't said one word to me or anyone else other than 'yes' and 'sir.' Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure she was the one who instructed the team to check for misnamed executables. I wonder what made her think of that?"

Castor's tiny smile grew. 'Beautiful _and _intelligent.' "So what you're saying is that after no more than forty-eight hours on the job she put you and our entire compliment of techs to shame?"

If Hudson had been offended by the comment, he didn't let on. "Completely. You should have seen me strike out with her too. I asked her if she'd show me her ironing secret... oh, the look of disdain on her face!"

"Well no wonder! 'Show me your ironing secret,' _that _was your pick-up line?"

"Well, hey come on, you've seen her! Every time she walks into a room her uniform looks like its been freshly pressed! Hell, you can practically see the steam coming off of her! It's not like she's sending them out three times a day. The women keep irons in their lockers just like we do and I thought she could teach me a few things; what's wrong with that?"

"Where would you like me to start? _Ironing secret? _No wonder she shot you down."

"Oh, shut up. You're just jealous because you haven't had the guts to talk to her."

"At least she smiled at me," Castor quipped with just the right amount of smugness.

"Get the fuck out! She _smiled_? At _you_?!"

"Ok, enough of this goofing off. You might not wear the uniform because of this silly 'pretend we're a civilian company' game we're playing to keep this project secret but you're still an Officer and a... well, I guess we'll have to settle for Officer. Gentleman is asking too much."

"Very funny."

"Yes, it was, _Candidate Mayo_. Now, getting back to how this code was delivered; we have exactly three and a half hours to figure it out because that's what the General is going to want to know _and _he's going to expect us to explain it to a room full of computer-illiterate suits from back East."

"Speaking of that, do you have any idea who all we're meeting with?"

"It's a given that the Bureau will be represented as well as the NSA. I would bet on at least one person from the Secret Service and the Joint Terrorism Task Force, not to mention DARPA and the Computer Emergency Readiness Team. I would also expect a liaison from both Congressional Intelligence Committees, if not an actual Congressman or Senator. And if he's not actually there you can be sure that Ashdown is going to be listening remotely. That, or he's going to have a recording of the whole thing sent out the second its over, and you know he's not our biggest fan."

"That's because he's a textbook technophobe. If he had his way automated missile defense wouldn't have gone farther than ENIAC!"

It annoyed Castor to no end when his friend spoke of the General that way - he hadn't risen to the position of Air Force Chief of Staff by being stupid. "He might be old fashioned, but just because he's not a big supporter of what we're doing doesn't make him a technophobe. In his own right the man is a genius - he spent fifteen years teaching Theory of Logic at the Academy. Modern missile defense is based on logic tables he came up with. So what if he read too many Harlan Ellison novels as a kid." And he had. Castor had seen the inside of the USAF Chief of Staff's office. An entire shelf was devoted to the man's work.

"_Titan's Shield _isn't going to be anything like 'AM,' you know that!"

'Tell me you're not that naive, Jack,' Castor wanted to say, but checked his tongue. If the minds behind the design were any indication, _Project Titan's Shield _had the capacity to become exactly the stuff of the nightmarish 'Allied Mastercomputer' created by the eccentric Science Fiction author. Luckily those minds were tempered by more rational minds like their superior officer.

"You know it and I know it, but that's because we're the ones building it! We're the tech guys; General Ashdown is an administrator. _And _he's old-school. Maybe he's got the right idea - if National Security can be compromised by something as low-tech as a ping flood we're in serious trouble. Besides, it's not the idea of technology that Ashdown is opposed to; he's opposed to an autonomous system _he _doesn't have complete control over. Remember all those SDI platforms up in space, the ones that the public thought we gave up on back in the 80s?"

"Yes, Bryan, I remember! Being able to use them is sort of the reason we're building _Titan's Shield_."

"_One _of the reasons. And there's also a reason no President since Reagan knew that they were there and that they work! Ashdown has been holding this card close to his vest for a long time and he doesn't want to give up that control to an artificial intelligence. With the administrations that we've seen since then who can blame him?"

"I know, eight years of chicken-doves, then eight years of chicken-hawks now at least four years of chicken-doves. Still, who is to say that Ashdown having his finger on the button is better than Clinton, Bush or Obama? And couldn't we have solved a lot of problems if _Titan's Shield _had come online sometime in the 90s? Two Gulf Wars could have been fought and won without a single boot on the ground!"

Castor threw up his hands in frustration. "Are you kidding? Don't you remember the stories our parents told us? I don't want to live through another arms race!"

"Well then what's the point, genius? Why did we apply to the Academy, spend all those years in flight training and sign on to this project? What we're building, its the ultimate weapon of conventional warfare, _Star Wars _come to life! Deploy it and before long we wont even need nukes anymore!"

"It still needs to be done behind the scenes, shrouded in cloak and dagger and out of reach of a Commander-in-Chief who doesn't have the wisdom to respect it. You know what Thomas Gabriel's worst sin was? He didn't work for _us_! The General wanted him, too. If he'd have done what he did inside our sphere of influence he'd have been lauded as a hero and Ashdown would have seen to it that he was put in charge of DARPA. Instead he got railroaded and went rogue. _That's _what happens when the politicians get their hands on something like this. I for one am glad that they don't know about it. That way it can't be used for saber-rattling and its still ready to go and a nuke still ceases to be anything to fear, no matter who launches it. Best case scenario we take it out before it even launches, worst case we take it out in midair. Either way it gets vaporized long before it can do any damage. Plus we have the added bonus of secrecy - you can't hack what doesn't exist."

"It's not like our computers picked this code up. That's why we have our own intranet."

"Yeah, and nobody has ever hacked us internally before," Castor replied sarcastically. The 'Fischer Incident' was still fresh in both men's minds, though neither wanted to speak of it. "The military doesn't even have to be the target! The Russians went after Estonian financial institutions, Gabriel went after the Social Security Administration. Think about it; how many first responders rely on digital communications? All of those systems rely on the Internet in one way or another. What do you think would happen if this scene played out all across the country? We rely on the Internet for practically everything! You take it down and you take out most people's primary information conduit. And don't get me started on how many things other than PCs use it as a backbone these days. Traditional land-line phones and broadcast television are obsolete! If our attacker was savvy enough he could wipe out voice-over-IP, cellular networks, emergency communications, anything that connects one site to another via a T1 line!"

Hudson let his partner's words sink in. He knew he was right, even if he didn't agree with the secrecy they were forced to work under. As far as he was concerned that secrecy, the barrier that prevented information sharing not just across branches of the military made the treachery of people like Charles Fischer even more destructive. "That's why it's so important for us to figure out how this code was delivered."

"You're right," Castor said as he felt the plane begin its descent toward their destination. A split-second the sound of a tone overhead indicated that the pilot was about to issue instructions to the passengers and crew in preparation for landing. "And we need to figure it out soon."

* * *

**OLD MULHOLLAND DRIVE  
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA  
03.21.2009 | 04:40 | AM | PST**

* * *

There was no part of LA that Post hated worse than _this _one - the Hollywood Hills, Bel Air, Woodland Hills, Glenview, Topanga... the entirety of the region that made up what was commonly referred to as the Casabalas Highlands. He'd grown up in the city, Long Beach specifically. This was "the wrong side of the tracks" to city kids. All the yuppies lived, and died, up here - especially on this older section of Mulholland Drive.

'David Lynch's movie didn't come close to capturing how creepy this place is,' he thought as he brought the van he was driving to a stop, its breaks squeaking ever so slightly. At any other time of day he wouldn't have noticed, but in these darkest, and quietest, hours of morning it was ear-wrenching. That was another thing about these hills, the way the constant sound of activity emanating from the city just below didn't quite reach them. It was that silence, combined with a view from the right vantage point looking east that could give one the impression that downtown was on another continent rather than just over the hill.

To tourists, or people who listened to too much early 90s hip-hop or whose only knowledge of LA came from TV and the movies, the "bad" parts of town were Compton and Farmington. To residents  
_this _was the place you didn't want to find yourself broken down in the middle of the night. It was all too common for people to disappear around here, never to be heard from again. People claimed that it was the fog that made everyone crazy, that he area's world famous smog mixed with it and made everyone go batshit. Sure, people and their stories. It wasn't until he'd gotten into "the business" that all the shenanigans up here started to make sense - most of the stories were rumors spread to cover up the countless murders, be they mob hits, rivalries among drug kingpins or executives getting whacked for industrial espionage.

Few, if any, of those murders were ever covered on the evening news - not as murders, anyway. It was funny to think that the twenty-four hour news networks had the world fooled into thinking that all those "wildfires" started from camping accidents or the Santa Ana winds when nine times out of ten the cause was an execution by arson. Even funnier was the number of obituaries that ran in the _LA Times _listing "natural" as the cause of death. Where Post came from neither being drown in your own pool or sixteen knife wounds ito the back qualified as a natural cause.

To be fair, a good bit of what went on down in the flats didn't get covered either. He'd heard earlier in the week about a Compton pimp who not only got carjacked, but had his clothes stolen and was left unconscious and naked on the sidewalk. Word was that his crew, long suffering under his mistreatment, recorded the aftermath with a camera phone and put the video on YouTube. He hadn't had a chance to see if that was true, but stranger things had happened. _Only in LA._

"Don't go off on one of your head-trips," said Tyler, Post's partner, from the passenger seat.

Lost in thought, Post didn't reply.

"Hey!"

"W-what... What?"

"Yeah, 'W-what, what?' Wake up! I said, don't go off on one of your head-trips!"

"Head-trips?"

"You were doing it again. You don't think I notice the foggy-eyed look and the lack of conversation? You're in that place again, that funny place you go to every time we do a job up here, thinkin' about all the funky rumors. We have a job to do, remember?"

"I remember," Post replied flatly.

"Wow, that was convincing," countered Tyler sarcastically.

The other man ignored his partner's good-natured ball-breaking. The two of them had seen some very strange things, as well as some things that were flat out impossible but were somehow a reality. Tyler's coping mechanism was to break Post's balls for his superstitions about the hills.

No sooner had the term 'superstitions' rolled through his mind when he noticed just how the fog was laying tonight; it was thickest closer to the ground and seemed to dissipate about three and a half feet up, giving the illusion that everything around them was on top of a cloud. He'd never seen fog hug the ground this way, and it made the place seem all the more strange.

"Have you ever thought about how silly these outfits are? Seriously, all I need is a beret, a pair of black aviators and a thick mustache and I could be Saddam Hussein," Tyler stated out-of-the-blue.

Post chuckled as he looked his partner over, trying to imagine what he'd look like with those additional accessories. 'Yeah, ol' Saddam is the image I'm getting,' he thought. He didn't get the whole deal with the fake purified water delivery service and their plain gray paramilitary-style uniforms, but he wasn't paid to "get it." He was just paid to get it, 'it' being the targets, taken care of. And the people at the top of the organization were eager for these particular targets, a mother, her son, his uncle and their bodyguard, to disappear.

Both men knew about the special nature of the bodyguard.

Thinking of... _her_ caused Post to draw his hand to the weapon strapped to his belt.

Stories had been floating around the area for years about robots from the future that were covered in a human facade. They'd started in the early 80s - '84 was the year that stuck out in Post's mind; he'd only been four years old at the time, but he still remembered all the hoopla over the "West Highland Massacre." Everything from aliens to 'roid-raging weightlifters had been floated as the "truth" behind the incident, but the rumor that never died revolved around tapes one of the survivors had gotten a hold of after the incident. A crazy guy who had no ID and no fingerprints had shown up weaving an elaborate tale about traveling back in time to stop a killer robot. Most people figured it was staged, a publicity stunt designed to get the LAPD a cash infusion from Sacramento. Then in '95 the same killer supposedly showed up and, in the space of a little more than twenty-four hours, had a shootout with a motorcycle cop at the Sherman Oaks Galleria, broke an inmate out of the Pescadero Psychiatric Hospital and wounded a couple dozen more cops during a second shootout at the office of a San Marino tech start-up - all without killing anyone.

The strange thing was that, according to the rumors, the woman who the guy had been trying to kill in '84 had helped him blow up the tech start-up's building! The Oklahoma City Bombing had happened only a couple months earlier and the story went that the whole thing was chalked up to domestic terrorism; "Nakatomi '95" they'd called it. They even claimed that the woman was suffering from Helsinki Syndrome; at least the TV news guys didn't refer to it as "Helsinki, Sweden" that time. Because the man who went public about the second event was a psychiatrist at Pescadero – who had also interviewed the guy on the tapes in '84 – people discreetly started to ask questions, which meant that they thought the story had merit.

Neither Post nor Tyler had ever paid those rumors any mind, until they both took jobs at Pacific Blue Water Delivery Service.

The driver checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror, wondering idly why the higher-ups even bothered with the whole water delivery rouse when they didn't bother to put the company name, or anything else for that matter, on the uniform. Even the hats were plain; couldn't they have stuck a logo on them, maybe a cute cartoon whale peeking its head out of a water bottle with the name 'Pacific Blue' written above it?

At least, that was the name that was printed on their W-2 Forms. Both men knew that it was just a front for one of LA's many underworld organizations which they'd both been on the outskirts of for practically their entire lives. The funny thing was that they'd both been with the organization for nearly two years and didn't know anything more about it than that whoever was at the top had a big thing for the color gray.

_And_ that all the rumors they'd never paid any mind to were actually true.

In the beginning their handler, a guy they'd known only as "Josh," hadn't seemed all that unusual, despite coming off as a bit of a stiff. Then both men saw him pick up a much heavier man by the neck and crush it, all with seemingly little effort. After that he'd taken them both aside and pulled out a knife. Certain that it had been intended for them, neither man was as shocked as they should have been by what happened next: without any indication that he was in any kind of pain, he sliced into his arm just below the elbow. He drew the cut all the way around his arm until it joined the point of the incision. Then, using his other hand, he pulled the skin of his forearm and hand off like it was a glove. They'd just stood there stunned, unable to speak. And he hadn't volunteered any information. He simply told them that their lives were forfeit were they to speak of what they'd seen to _anyone_. Then he'd slid the severed flesh back over his metal skeleton. Several days later he didn't have so much as a scar where he'd made the cut.

They'd paid attention, and he'd continued to give them assignments, casually, as though nothing had ever happened. He continued to tell them who - they were expected to handle the when, where and how. In return for whacking everyone they were instructed to, they were paid more than handsomely.

It was that thought that brought him back to reality. He was still clutching the item at his side. He gave it a final pat and then pulled out his cell phone and called up one of the applications. An onlooker would mistake it for simple GPS mapping software, but the blinking red dot just to the left of the vehicle's position was much more than a co-ordinate on a map.

"At least we know she's here," Tyler said, gesturing toward the device.

"You don't trust our boy's intel?"

"I don't trust anything about him, especially the way he just handed us these," the man in the passenger seat indicated a device on his own belt similar to Post's. "If they can disable the girl they can disable him."

"He doesn't exactly have to worry about us using them on him," Post replied.

"Does he?"

The driver ignored the comment. He didn't want to think about the consequences of betraying the cyborg. He exited the mapping application and brought up a picture of the targets' bodyguard.

"Pretty little thing," Tyler commented. "You think she's got all the uh... proper equipment?"

Post rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't want to find out," he replied honestly. Offhandedly he wondered about why whoever built these things decided to doll one up to look like an eighteen-year-old girl. 'And why does she look like someone I've seen on TV?' "It doesn't matter how pretty she is; all that matters is that she's out of the house until dawn."

They had a contingency, even if they wouldn't need it. Josh had armed them and explained that machines like him had weaknesses. Were they to encounter the female cyborg, they could disable her with the modified tazers they were both carrying, but they would only have two minutes to escape or permanently disable her. After that she would "reboot" and come right back at them. They either had to use that time to make their getaway or they could 'kill' her by cutting a hole in her head and 'pulling her chip.'

Josh had believed that a confrontation with her would be unnecessary; apparently the "uncle" had been spending his nights at a girlfriend's place and the cyborg had developed a habit of leaving the house late at night and not returning until sometime between six and seven o'clock in the morning. Both men had carried out hits on sleeping targets before and both figured that they would be in and out inside of sixty seconds and the girl would come home to mother and son corpses.

Unfortunately fate wasn't on their side this night, for just then Post noticed a set of headlights in the driver's side mirror, a set of lights belonging to a Dodge truck that turned into their targets' driveway only seconds later.

"Mother of God, duck!" Post exclaimed and ducked his head below the steering column.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 04:45 | AM | PST**

**

* * *

**There were two of them, both human males, hiding in a van sitting across the street from the entrance to the driveway.

For any number of reasons they had no business being in this neighborhood at this time of the day. The owner of the house across the street, the one they were parked in front of, had moved to Florida. There was no one currently occupying the house. The only other house in the immediate vicinity was also presently unoccupied because the family who owned it had gone on vacation.

Given the circumstances, Cameron calculated the probability that these men were threats to John to be above ninety percent - it was more than enough reason to confront them directly.

Unfortunately there was another target lurking in the area.

She patrolled the neighborhood nightly, frequently using her auditory sensors to listen in on conversations taking place in the surrounding houses. The Connor Family's immediate neighbor, the Murphy's, were the vacationing family. The first indication that something wasn't right was the fact that a car was parked in the driveway, a car not owned by the family or any known acquaintance. The exterior fluorescent light that illuminated the driveway, the detached garage and a good portion of the family's backyard was also not functioning. A human wouldn't have noticed the car because of its dark color, but with her visual sensors she was able to see the latent heat signature of the engine, even nearly-nonexistent as it was.

She pulled into the driveway, hoping that she'd not arrived to late to protect John from being ambushed while he slept, slowly moving while she scanned the yard and the wooded area beyond for additional threats. When she finally came to a stop beside the garage she focused on the house, using her Thermograhpic vision to check for life signs. Through the structure she could see everyone who was supposed to be there - Kacy and her child in one half of the duplex, as well as John, Sarah and Derek in the other, the vital signs of all of them reading normal. She tried to ignore the feeling of elation that had come upon her at knowing John was safe, which she couldn't help but notice coincided with a system query from the unknown **System Process 1883.**

Exiting the truck she made her way down the driveway toward the street. The van hadn't moved in the short time she'd taken her attention away from it, nor had the two men who thought they were hiding in the back of it. She scanned them as well, both men showing signs of agitation. They hadn't been prepared to encounter her, and they were scared.

'Good,' the gynoid thought.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 04:47 | AM | PST**

* * *

"What?! What did you-" Tyler was cut off when his partner grabbed him by his collar and pulled his head down just as he turned to look out the van's tinted side window. He'd had his attention focused on the other man, and not on the street. Slowly both men worked their way into the rear of the van and crouched down below the rear driver's side window. Tyler was not happy when he realized what had spooked his partner. "Aww, dammit! God dammit all!"

"You said a mouthful," Post responded. "I fucking knew this was going to happen!"

"Shit! Looks like you were right, Josh didn't know as much as he led on; she's not supposed to show up until daybreak!"

"Well it looks like she changed her plans - and ruined ours."

Both men slowly moved into the rear compartment of the van and raised their heads just to see out the window. They could see the truck still moving slowly down the driveway towards the garage.

"So what now? The garage is far enough back from the street that we could make a break for it," this came from Tyler.

With a whisper the driver replied, "It's too late for that now. Look at how slow she's going. She knows when something is out of place, and this crate is definitely out of place. For now we stay as quiet and as still as we possibly can and hope that she doesn't come to investigate."

"How could she-" he started to reply in his normal tone of voice when the other man grabbed his arm with one hand and pressed the extended pointer finger of his other up to his lips, indicating that he shut his mouth.

"I told you," the first man spoke in a whisper - albeit an angry one, "stay as quiet as you possibly can, you _stupid fuck_!"

The second man pulled his arm away quickly, but complied and spoke in his own whisper, "How could she make us?"

"She's one of _them_, you idiot! They see _everything_. Your average person might not notice an unmarked delivery van casually parked on the street but she knows this thing doesn't belong here! Our only hope is that she doesn't consider us a threat and goes on about her normal routine and gives us a chance to slip away."

"Slip away to what, report that we let ourselves get run off before the deed was done? We do that we might as well dig our own holes in the desert."

"Don't be so dramatic," Post responded, thinking of the other tactical advantage that they had. "We have the tracking device, remember? The Connor bitch is none the wiser. We'll work our way out of this plan and head back towards the freeway. We'll pull into the Bel Air Presby Church's parking lot and wait until they make their move. With any luck they'll cruise right by the church and not even notice us. The only other way for them to go is down Canyonback Road, through the golf course, onto Sepulveda then south to the freeway. Either way, we own 'em."

"They have a truck _and _an SUV, genius. What if they split up?"

The driver paused to contemplate his friends words. Again he raised his head just enough to peak out the window. The machine was out of the truck now, standing about halfway down the driveway. There was nothing obstructing her view of the street, and despite the lack of light he could tell that she was focused squarely on their van. He grasped the handle of the tazer attached to his belt as he replied, "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Tyler saw his partner's hand move to grasp his weapon and mirrored the motion, knowing full well that even with the alterations to their weapons that it would take a combined discharge from both to send the "female" cyborg off to dream of electric sheep for 120 seconds.

After a few seconds spent watching the girl stare at the van from the center of the driveway but make no move to approach it Tyler whispered, "What's she waiting for?"

Post kept his grasp firmly on his tazer, but made no move to pull it from its holster. "I don't know. She has no reason to hesitate." No reason he could think of, anyway.

"Josh said they have some sort of x-ray vision; maybe she knows we have these," Tyler said as he motioned toward his own weapon.

"It's possible, but he also told us that she wouldn't be back 'til dawn," Post came back with, somewhat miffed that his cybernetic employer had given them such bad information. Earlier he'd been fairly confident they could pull the job off, even if the girl showed up. Now fear was starting to overwhelm him, and not just because of her. He had no idea who the higher-ups in the organization were, but he was a low man on the totem pole and he wasn't looking forward to taking the blame for Josh's mistake. "If she has x-ray vision then she probably has super-hearing or something," he added. "I wouldn't be surprised if she could hear every word we say."

"Oh great," his partner said, throwing up his hands in frustration. "We're fucked now."

"Not necessarily," Post retorted. He kept his eyes glued to her, not caring if she could see his head through the window. If she could see through the van's fiberglass exterior then trying to hide was pointless. There was something in her body language, a strange tell-tale for a robot. "She's still not coming any closer. There's got to be a reason." Where his boss carried himself with unnatural rigidity and total stoicism the female was... different... opposite. There was something else out there, a perceived threat greater than Post and Tyler. Her head snapped around suddenly, her body following only a second later. "Look!"

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 04:49 | AM | PST**

**

* * *

**She stopped, now having a clear view of the neighboring house. While keeping her body and head facing the intruders in the van she shifted her eyes to the right, able to get an accurate scan of the structure with only her peripheral vision. There was a human male in the third floor loft, observing her and the van through a window. She turned to have a better angle for her x-ray mode, still keeping secondary focus on the van. The man in the loft had surveillance equipment - night vision sensors and what looked like a monitoring array in the style of a miniature satellite dish set atop a tripod, obviously for picking up audio from a distance.

While both "threats" seemed to be passive, nothing more than people watching the house, the fact that they were there at all was troublesome. How had their location come to be compromised? And who sent them? Were these agents of Kaliba? Skynet? John's continued safety was dependent on keeping their location secret. If these observers remained in place their planned retreat to a new safe house would be pointless.

The heart-rate of the observer in the neighbor's third floor loft jumped. He was aware of her and, like the men in the van, he was scared. It occurred to Cameron at that second that both parties were aware of her true nature.

While that added another dimension to the problem, she couldn't devote processing power to dwelling on it, for at that exact moment her attention shifted again, this time to the backyard and the thick woodlands just beyond the house.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 04:50 | AM | PST**

* * *

Both men watched as the female cyborg, now facing away from them, focused her attention on something beyond her charges' house in the direction of the nearest neighbor on their side of the street. Post quickly reached across the width of the van into a utility box attached to its side between the back of the front passenger door and the sliding side door on that same side. From it he retrieved a pair of night-vision binoculars and focused them on the girl. "Keep your eyes on her and tell me if she turns back toward us," he ordered as he placed the vision-enhancing tool in front of his eyes.

The binoculars were not just equipped with night-vision sensors but a 50x zoom lens. He could see her clearly, her form displayed on the scope in a greenish hue that reminded him of the monochrome green monitor of his first PC. He zoomed in more, to the limit of the tool's ability. Beyond her in the distance he couldn't see anything that should pull her attention away from him and his partner. "Damn, I don't see anything."

"She can probably see much better in the dark than those things can."

"You're probably right, but I had to... Whoa, now she's turning back towards the garage!" Post focused the binoculars on wooded area behind the house. He couldn't focus on an object, but there was something, a blur of motion that kept flashing across his vision. Each time he turned to refocus it would fly past before he could focus. "There's something moving in the woods! It's too fast for me to keep up with, but it seems to have really piqued her interest."

"Come on man, this may be our only chance," Tyler exclaimed.

"You know what, I think you're right," Post replied as he lunged forward into the drivers' seat. He started the engine as Tyler fell into the passenger's seat, while still keeping watch out the side window.

"She's not following! Hell, I don't think she's even paying attention to us!"

"Whatever is going on in the woods is more interesting to her than we are, _for now, _but I doubt we've seen the last of her," Post retorted as he shifted into gear and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 04:52 | AM | PST**

* * *

_"Don't be so dramatic. We have the tracking device, remember? We'll park in the Bel Air Presby Church's parking lot..."_

That was _it_, he knew where the imitation water delivery guys were heading next, thanks to the high-end surveillance equipment his employers provided them with. It was the sort of gear used by the CIA and the military. _Only _the CIA and the military, which made Manny Futjitsu wonder if his employers weren't actually part of one of those institutions, rather than just very well connected. The best part was that the brainless goons in the van didn't have a clue. All he had to do was report in and find a discreet place to hide and wait for them to get back on the road.

But he couldn't think about what to do next. All he could think about was the fact that the girl... no, she wasn't a girl... she was like the other one, the one that his co-workers were following. He didn't really know what they were, but he knew they shouldn't exist... _not yet._

That didn't matter. They did exist, and one of them had just seen him.

If he hadn't had a perfect view of her face, right down to the whites of her false eyes, he wouldn't have known that she'd been looking him right at him. Sure, he knew the cyborg could see in the dark and see heat signatures through walls, but the way she'd looked at him just now... from nearly a football field's length away she'd locked eyes with him, right through his night-vision goggles.

He knew that the only reason she wasn't wringing his neck right now was that something had distracted her. He didn't know who or what it was, only that it had been moving through the woods near the hillside - and that it was more interesting to her than he was.

The other two goons had taken the opportunity to retreat, and "The Jits" saw no reason not to follow their lead.

He'd wasted no time pulling his gear together and getting out of the house. He'd not taken anything that didn't belong to him and he hadn't disturbed anything. He'd taken care not to damage the lock, either. The vacationing owners would never know he'd been there. Of course he wasn't concerned about them.

As he hopped into his Jaguar XK he realized his mistake. He'd pulled down the length of the driveway, but his car was still visible from the street. She wasn't like the other one - she knew what she was doing. She'd seen the car, and she'd known it didn't belong here. Luckily, this particular variant of the XK line had a near silent starter. As long as he didn't accelerate too quickly he could pull away without waking up the neighbors.

He inserted the keyfob and activated his engine, noticing only when he went to grasp the gear shift just how much his hand was shaking. He'd had close calls before, but not when dealing with a mark like the female cyborg. He pulled down the driveway, slowly, without activating his headlights. When he was clear he applied more pressure to the accelerator and pulled away, unmolested. He traveled about a quarter-mile before looking back, half expected to see the girl chasing him down on foot.

To his great relief she was not.

He let himself relax, slightly as he traveled another quarter mile. Before long he was passing the massive white structure that was the Bel Air Presbyterian Church on his left. He noted its deserted parking lot, wishing he could just pull in and wait along with the imitation water delivery men. He didn't think highly of their surveillance skills, but he doubted even they would be stupid enough not to at least check his car out if they found it sharing the lot with them. He cruised on by, telling himself that he'd be catching up with them soon enough. He'd heard their entire conversation. They were going to lay in wait, hoping to catch the Connor Family as they passed on their way to pick up Interstate 405. Very well, he would find a place to wait himself.

He looked down at the center console, smiling as he noted his still-attached cell phone. Without shifting his focus he slid his thumb across the steering wheel and pressed a button that would initiate a Bluetooth link between the phone and the hands-free audio system that was standard equipment on the car.

"Dial, 'Dr. T,'" he prompted. A split second later the name and corresponding private phone number appeared over top of the GPS data already displayed on the in-dash monitor.

_"Yes, Mr. Fujitsu," _a voice answered after exactly three rings.

"Just reporting in, Doctor. The water delivery men didn't spend much time at the Connor house. The cyborg arrived approximately five minutes later."

_"And she took no action against them?"_

"No, sir. She seemed to be... Well, she noticed me."

_"You were spotted? How did you manage to escape?"_

"I think there was someone else watching the house, someone other than the other cyborg's watchers. They were watching from the woods behind the property. Whoever they were she must have felt that they were the biggest threat because she chased after them."

_"And the other two?"_

"They said something about a tracking device. They plan to wait out the morning until the family makes its move. I plan to follow them."

_"Tracking device, eh? Your partners heard McCarthy going on about a tracking device before Joshua dropped him off the cliffs on Route 1. Keep listening in - I want you to find out as much as you can about the device. Also, keep an eye out for this other watcher. He or she could have the same idea you do about following the water delivery van. If there is a new player in the game I'm going to need information. Don't disappoint me."_

"I won't, sir."

With no more discussion, the line went dead.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 04:55 | AM | PST**

* * *

The woods were deserted. In every direction Cameron's bio-scanners could pick up nothing more advanced than Odocoileus Virginianus, and no definitive trace that anything else had been there.

There was, however, plenty of circumstantial evidence that a third human observer had been present, though she was unable to discern how any human could have moved as fast as whatever it was she'd noticed only moments ago. There were fresh tracks, but they were so irregular that finding the path would be impossible even for the advanced CPU she possessed. It was though the intruder had been in multiple places at once which was, without introducing the temporal element, impossible. It would take a Terminator to be able to cover so much ground in such a short time, and a Terminator would have confronted her, not run away.

As she neared the house she observed that not only had the van disappeared but the bio-sign in the neighbor's loft was no longer present - nor was his car. Whether this was a good thing or not Cameron couldn't discern. In the immediate sense there were no other signs of human life in the area, which meant that the family was safe. But there was a short bit of time remaining until sunrise. If any of the observing parties chose to return with reinforcements they could be in danger.

She quietly slipped into the house, searching for signs of disturbance before making her way upstairs. As she did she did not fail to notice more prompting by **System Process 1883** just as a sudden, less than rational desire to be near John for more than tactical reasons washed over her.

* * *

**TIME INDETERMINATE**

* * *

_"Are you alive?"_

There was that question again, though not asked with the harsh female voice of a predatory, shape-shifting female Terminator or the smooth Austrian accent of Uncle Bob. No, this voice was soft, feminine and... _sensual_. Most of all it was familiar. Also it seemed to echo through more than just his ears- he could hear the voice _in his mind_.

_"Yes, in your MIND, John."_

'Cameron?' He thought.

_"Yes, John; it's me."_

She was all around him; he could _feel _her as though they were the same person. The intensity of sharing a mind with her was so intense he didn't immediately notice that he was restrained, both arms and legs shackled to a metal table and spread out in a "X," like he were being crucified on a St. Andrew's cross. When realization came to him he had the vague sense that this wasn't the first time he'd been restrained in recent history, but his memory failed him when he tried to recall exactly where and when.

_"You are in chaos," _she said and thought. It was her voice, but her words and rhythm were off.

"I'm chained to a table," he replied as he took in his surroundings.

He recognized this place, vaguely. He knew he'd seen it before, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen it. It had to have been in pictures, for he was certain he'd never actually been here.

The room was large, configured around a glowing central table with what looked like futuristic computer workstations arranged along the walls. Above him were several levels of the same accessible by ladder from the main level where he was restrained. At various points scattered throughout the room were high-definition displays and what looked like touch-screen consoles, though from a distance he couldn't make out any details that could tell him what purpose they served. That area opened up into a slightly larger, circular chamber containing a huge cylindrical device that extended up several levels beyond the ceiling, and his ability to see. His field of vision was limited due to the restraints, but he could see that there was a hole in the floor that accommodated whatever the thing was. It probably extended downward several levels. From above and below neon lights slowly pulsed and scrolled, red ones up from below and blue ones down from above, into a housing that connected the upper and lower portions. A bright white light glowed in time with the throbbing of the machine that filled every surface of the room with a slight vibration.

Whatever it was it had a very futuristic feel to it.

_"See the forest _through _the trees, John."_

"What do you-" he stopped in mid-sentence as he realized there was motion above him. The entire ceiling of the room veiled in a murky, green mist littered with festoons of thick black hoses which seemed to move of their own volition. One set of them was fastened to... he couldn't barely find the words for it. It was _Cameron_! Well, part of her. It was the upper part of her body, her torso, arms and head suspended by a complex rig of cables and hydraulic pulleys - like an engine hoist in a body shop. Her appearance was eerie, and at the same time breathtaking. Her long, dark hair fluttered about in the air as she descended, yet two thick strands seemed to remain unmoving - covering over her breasts. When her face came into view she was smiling knowingly, amused by his confusion as to how such a thing was possible.

Her descent slowed as the part of her that was held by the cables merged with the lower half of her body which he just now realized was standing only inches away, clad in very form fitting black latex pants and an attached pair of heels that should make walking, even standing, impossible. He could hear the clicking sounds of mechanical pieces merging together and the hissing of servos as pulley assembly detached from her upper body. When she was satisfied that she was unencumbered she closed her eyes and extended her arms high above her head, then arched her back in a stretching motion, as though she'd just woken up from a relaxing sleep.

Again, the thick locks of hair that obscured her topless state from his view remained in place. She let herself relax her stance, opened her eyes and locked them on his own. She smiled at him and spoke, though only with her thoughts; _"You are attracted to me."_

A strong feeling of deja-vu came over him; he'd seen this scene play out before. They'd traveled through time together, each arriving naked on the other side of the temporal gateway. He'd been distracted then, not just by the fact that the portal had opened on a busy freeway and they'd been observed by a carload of college kids with cell phone cameras but also by the fact that his mother had been right there with them - just as naked. Despite the circumstances and the fact that he knew what Cameron was under her skin, he couldn't help but be drawn to the beautiful form that hid her true nature. Something in her demeanor told him that she'd noticed _and _that she'd not only understood why he'd responded to her that way but that she'd enjoyed it. He'd thought it was his imagination at the time, but now... what stood before him now was still a huntress, but not one hunting for a kill; there was a silvery glint in her eyes that belied a far more primal desire.

In a different time and place he might find himself totally overwhelmed by her presence, his tongue tied in confusion. _This _time, despite being at an extreme disadvantage, he once again noted the shackles holding both his arms and legs firmly in place, he's not going to let himself carry on like a buffoon. "Yes, I'm attracted to you," he responds verbally, unsure how to even try to respond telepathically.

There was little distance separating the two of them. Still, she closed it. "You've found the courage to admit it. _Finally,_" she said softly into his ear. She was so close he could feel the heat of her breath on his skin.

"There's no point in denying it anymore," he replied. He wondered if there had ever been. Despite his mother's anti-prophecy that each person's fate was his or her own, so many aspects of his life seemed to be predetermined.

"There was never a point in denying it. I knew from the first moment," she countered.

"'Come with me if you want to live.'"

She cocked her head to the side, not understanding.

"You had me at 'Come with me if you want to live,' the day we met. I've been fighting it since that moment," he admitted. It felt amazing to unburden himself this way, all the more so seeing as how she'd gone in the space of a few hours from being the person he trusted the least to the person he trusted the most.

She looked... _stunned_.

He felt the way she looked.

For a time the two stared at each other, the distance between them now practically nonexistent, John stunned that he'd actually gone so far as to reveal what he'd just revealed and Cameron amazed that he'd had the courage. Then, with no warning, she closed her eyes and pressed herself into him, her lips on a collision course with his.

Unprepared and unsure, he pulled his head back slightly.

She was undeterred.

Still, he pulled back further, to the point his head was resting against the cool metal frame he was fastened to.

Rather than become frustrated, she reached her hand up to his chin and grasped it between her thumb and pointer finger.

"Cam... Shouldn't you-"

"Shhhh... No more stalling, John. I've waited too long. _We've _waited to long," she said with a most sultry tenor.

"I know, but," he tilted his head from side to side, indicating the restraints around his wrists.

Cameron smiled as she replied, "Resistance is futile." The she pressed her soft lips to his own.

The sensation was like a shockwave of pleasure spreading out from his lips to the edge of his fingers, toes and every strand of hair on his head. He only wished he wasn't restrained so that he could wrap his arms around her, the intensity of the moment overriding the realization, thanks to her utterance of the unmistakable dialog, that he was once again dreaming.

And yet, that realization didn't cause him to wake up, nor did it lessen the high of the moment he was lost in.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 04:59 | AM | PST**

* * *

_"Cameron..."_

He was saying her name... Calling out to her, with longing. She was unable to stifle the tiny, uncharacteristic gasp that came from her mouth as she listened.

From the other side of his bedroom door she ran another check of his bio-signs. He was deep in REM sleep, and actively dreaming. _About her_.

Running the thermograph over him she noted his arousal, the graphical display showing the buildup of heat in his genitals. Far from seeing the disturbing imagery he'd described earlier, he clearly found this dream to be a pleasant one, and it only enthralled her more to realize from his verbal cues that _she_ was the subject of the dream.

For the first time **System Process 1883 **requested and, without her consent, was granted additional memory. In that moment an even more intense feeling came over her, irrationally superseding all concerns about the threats she'd just run off outside.

She was a Terminator, a machine with a singular purpose - to follow orders. Her prime directive, first and foremost of her orders was to protect John Connor with her cybernetic life. She wasn't supposed to be, as she put it earlier, fascinated by him. She wasn't supposed to observe him from the shadows, analyzing how he reacted physically to erotic dream imagery. She certainly wasn't supposed to be aroused herself by the fact that _she _was that erotic dream image. The logical, mechanical construct that was her cybernetic mind was telling her to cease this behavior immediately, do another perimeter sweep, engage any new threats outside if necessary and neutralize them if possible.

And yet here she stood, still as a statue in front of his bedroom door, her hand reaching out but not quite grasping the doorknob. She imagined that to an informed onlooker she would appear rather ridiculous - frozen and indecisive like an immature human girl thrilled by the idea of sneaking out of her parents' house for the first time while also terrified by the prospect of getting caught.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 05:05 | AM | PST**

* * *

He couldn't tell whether or not his feet were making contact with the ground, they were moving so fast. He'd never moved this quickly under his own power, after all. It was almost as though he was flying rather than running, but here and there a slight misstep would knock his balance off and threaten to send him crashing through the thick and thorny brush native to the Casabalas Highlands region of Southern California.

Of course, with his particular abilities it was easy to compensate for those slight missteps. That was until he reached the edge of the hillside which would lead him back to his car, lost in introspection of how far he'd traveled on foot and repeating definitions of common units of measure he was still adapting to; '_Mile_, customary unit, used almost exclusively in the United States, approximately 1.61 kilometers or...' His introspection was cut short as he failed to properly gauge the distance between his foot and the ground as the terrain became sloped downward in front of him. In short order he crashed, knees first, to the ground and proceeded to roll the remainder of the distance to the flat ground below, his head missing the edge of the car's chrome bumper by only... 'What's the term,' he thought as he allowed himself a moment of rest before pulling himself up. His knees were sore; he was sure he'd skinned both of them, as well as his left elbow. There was a trickle of blood from his left knee as well, he realized as he looked himself over in the twilight.

He took a step, only one, toward the car and fell against it, noting the extremely short distance between the spot where he'd come to a stop. 'Inches, that's the term. Missed it by inches... And a kilometer is the equivalent of a standard Colonial klick.'

After catching his breath Earth's newest and likely _only _extraterrestrial inhabitant, one Leoben Conoy, pulled the driver's side door of his newly acquired "classic" 1968 Chevrolet Camaro open and fell into the seat, taking a deep, relaxing breath as he did. He'd planned well, even if he hadn't planned on leaving so soon. Still, he was grateful that he'd taken the time to scout the area before approaching his target. Unlike the two fools who'd not only announced their arrival from a far but had been discovered and run off in short order, he hadn't made the mistake of getting in close with a vehicle. That had given him the freedom to keep watch on the target from afar. He'd also parked facing the direction he'd come. If he was followed he'd have a chance to make a break for it, though it was unlikely that the girl would be able to keep his pace.

But if she surprised him he would see her coming long before she was in a position to take action, though he wasn't sure what action he was expecting her to take. She didn't look like much; she was little older than a teenager, really. What harm could she be?

'So why were all my senses screaming, "DANGER" as I watched her?' He knew the answer, of course, and he should be smarter than to underestimate an opponent based solely on appearance. The girl had that look. _His _look; the look of a hunter. It was amazing to see it on one so young and feminine - it looked out of place on her, the way it did on the Eights. Contrastingly, the mystery woman... 'Sarah Connor,' he now knew her name to be... '_Her _face was made... sculpted... with a hunter's gaze.' She was more like the Sixes - a huntress in the guise of something beautiful, though he doubted fashion was as high a priority for the Earth woman. The thought brought a dark smile to his own features. Yes, she had the look and he knew it all too well. Several years in space hadn't dulled his senses, he'd simply not factored in the possibility that he'd be noticed. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

It felt good to be back in his element.

Yes, he was a _hunter_ - just like the young girl, and just like... "Sarah," he whispered her name. He slipped a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jacket, a sketch he'd made - his first since arriving in Earth's twenty-first century as its people measured time. When he'd gotten to a lodging place, a few hours after his arrival, he'd fallen asleep in short order. When he'd woken a full twenty-four hours had passed. It was by far the longest he'd ever slept. He'd been dreaming, he knew, but he could remember only a single image from the dreams - a still image of Sarah Connor as a younger woman, sitting behind the wheel of an open-air vehicle with the Earth equivalent of a Tauron Sheppard dog sitting next to her, faithfully. She had a look of great sorrow and longing on her face. Before realization of where he was or what had transpired over the last three days of his life came to him he'd recreated the image perfectly. He felt compelled at odd times to look at it, hoping that sometime soon she'd tell him what she was thinking of in that moment.

What made her so... _attractive _in that picture was that it was the only image he'd seen of her since the vision of her in the Opera House in which she didn't remind him of... _him_.

He reached over to open the glove compartment. The previous owner of the vehicle, perhaps more than one previous owner, had left a collection of cassette tapes inside. He pulled one of them out, laughing as he mulled over how these things had long since been replaced as the primary media for recorded music on Earth while they were still very common on the Colonial worlds - another item on an ever-growing list of ways his Terran cousins were technologically superior. Antiquated as they were, cassettes weren't conceived when this car rolled off the assembly line. A previous owner had replaced the factory stereo with one capable of playing them and given it its own battery pack to allow playback without starting the engine, another feature that was present in newer cars like the one he'd appropriated when he'd first arrived. He removed the tape from its case and slid it into the deck, setting the volume at a very low level, just enough for him to hear the playback at the edge of his auditory senses.

- _I like to look at shadows sweating on the wall... I get excited when I hear footsteps in the hall _-

He felt at home amongst the shadows, watching unobserved. He didn't mean Sarah or her son harm, but for now he needed to look at them as prey.

- _Outside your balcony I have a room with a view... and I'm watching you_ -

Finding them had been easier than he'd expected and, until the girl showed up, so had watching them.

- _I dial your telephone each and every afternoon _-

What he hadn't planned on was running into several others with the same agenda. These people were important, this much he already knew, but for there to be so much surveillance by so many different unknown parties made him wonder if they knew how much danger they were in.

- _I wait by your door till you're asleep at night... And when you're alone I know when you turn out the light_ -

Whomever the observer who'd made himself at home in the neighbor's house was, he'd made a decent effort to remain inconspicuous. The other two, not so much. Even the girl had spotted them almost immediately.

- _I'm gonna get close to you... so close to you_ -

Unfortunately she'd also noticed _him_, which shouldn't be possible. He was well practiced in the art of moving amongst the shadows, keeping concealed and unnoticed even in large crowds. It was also no disadvantage that he possessed speed and agility greater than the average "human" by a factor of 1.75 to 2 in his native element, which had a slightly denser atmosphere and greater gravitational pull. Those were the things Leoben enjoyed most of all about Earth - the way he could breathe just a bit easier and that he had a slightly lighter step. These things would seem insignificant to most people, but to someone who'd lived in an artificial atmosphere for most of his life they made a tremendous difference.

- _I'm gonna get close to you... oh so close! -_

But for reasons presently unknown they hadn't made enough of a difference to keep him off the dradis of the dark-haired young girl who he'd just seen in the flesh for the first time. He doubted she'd gotten as good a look at him as he'd gotten of her, but she'd seen him on the move and that was bad enough.

- _You fumble for your keys, I'm six or seven steps behind you... I'm so close to you!_ -

Wherever she was, John Connor - the young man who she'd stood with on the stage of the Opera House - as well as his mother, wouldn't be far behind. He wasn't ready to reveal himself to them - something inside, which could be something completely foreign, told him the time wasn't right yet. He knew what they were fighting for, and he knew that a consequence of that life was knowing that you were never safe, but it was better to watch from the shadows than to add to their burden by revealing that their adversaries were literally watching them as they slept. While he was reasonably sure that the solitary man who'd made himself an uninvited house-guest of the Connor family's neighbor wasn't an immediate threat, the two goons in the plain white van might as well have been shouting their harmful intent from the nearby mountaintops. He'd been certain that they were going to make a move in which case he'd have had no choice but to get involved, but the girl had somehow scared them off. That didn't make sense _unless_...

- _Are you terrified of me? What do I know about you? How did I find out?_ -

'Damn, it's happening again,' he thought. Just like in the future, when he'd seen all the clues that pointed to the ruins of the Institute housing a time machine but wasn't able to put it all together until the angel with Kara's face came to him, he knew that there was something about the girl that he knew he should recognize but he couldn't! From his vantage point in the woods he'd seen the observers in the van take off, just before he'd made his own escape. Several minutes had passed, and there was still no sign of pursuit. No matter how the girl was able to see him the fact remained that she could. She would warn the others, they would be on the lookout and identifying friend or foe wouldn't be high on their list of priorities.

- _You think I'm a fool or maybe some kind of lunatic_ -

No, going back and trying to keep watch wouldn't do any good now. His best chance was to quietly retreat from the area and try to pick up the trail of the men in the van. He'd used them to find the Connors once - he could do it again.

- _You say I'm wasting my time but I know what to do with it - it's as plain as black and white!_ -  
- _I'm gonna get close to you... so close to you _-

'Yes, close to you... _so close,_' he thought as he slid the key into the ignition and turned it, happy that this time he had a car with a traditional starter. He maneuvered the car back down the secluded dirt path that led up from the main road which he would follow north.

As he drove off into the darkest part of day, that time just before dawn, only the trees were left to hear the final lyric:

- _I'm like a hungry criminal... and your protection is minimal_ -

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES

* * *

**

Special thanks to TaleWeaver, beta-reader extraordinaire, and Bryan0711. There were references to both of you in this chapter!

I apologize for the extensive time between updates. The month of July was a crazy one not only at work but at home with trips out of town and the celebration of an anniversary. In addition to that I came down with a severe case of writers block when it came to several of these scenes, and as all of you can attest to writers' block is something that feeds on itself to become worse. It's hard when you spend an hour or two over the course of several days and you only put a few hundred words to paper. Some of these scenes take me only moments to write and some can take weeks, and when the inspiration doesn't come no matter how long you look at the screen its easy to get discouraged. On top of that I wasn't happy with Chapter 8 and I rushed it out so as to have an update and I think that contributed to it. This story is mapped out from beginning to end, but it takes a lot of time and thought to go from a thought on an outline that doesn't even form a complete sentence to a 2500+ word scene, especially with the level of descriptiveness I've been shooting for. I think I actually wrote about twice the length of this chapter in pieces of future ones!

The song Leoben is listening to is _Gonna Get Close to You _by Queensryche.

The "JANET" identifier spoken of in the first scene is the nickname for planes that transport personnel from the "Janet" Terminal at Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas to various installations spread throughout the Nellis Test and Training Range, the location of the Nevada Test Site where nuclear weapons were tested between the 1940s and the 1990s, the aforementioned Tonopah Test Range, of which the Electronic Warfare Range is a part, and "Area 51." N5175U are the call-letters of an actual JANET flight, though I don't know if that specific plane is still in service.

For those not familiar with military time and dating, the ZULU time-stamp is another term for Greenwich Mean Time. "1230 ZULU" would be 4:30 AM Pacific Standard Time. The date-stamp "2009080" is a military reference for the date as a seven digit number, the first four being the year and the final three being the day out of 365. March 21 was the 80th day of 2009.

Thomas Gabriel, the villain from _Live Free or Die Hard_ is referenced in the first scene, and there are several references to the first _Die Hard _later in the chapter. Several of you caught the mention of "General McClane" in Chapter 8. Yes, I'm assuming that in this world those events actually took place. Don't think of this as a crossover with _Die Hard _though, since no characters from that universe will be appearing.

Funny factiod: In this chapter there is a reference to Harlan Ellison, specifically his story _I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream_. The author actually sued James Cameron because he claimed that the idea of Skynet was lifted from his own "Allied Mastercomputer."

While I'm trying to keep the modern-day tech part of this story grounded in the realm of the possible, I'm playing a little fast and loose with what a ping flood could do. It's true that you could deliver the code that makes up a logic bomb in a way that most anti-virus and anti-spyware software wouldn't catch (I actually snuck a simple logic bomb past Spybot Search and Destroy AND AVG Pro Antivirus (as well as norton Antivirus) just to see if it work). While something as simple as that can cause headaches for the average person whose knowledge of computers doesn't extend beyond the GUI I seriously doubt that it would make communication between ISPs and IXPs impossible as I'm implying. If any of you note any especially egregious errors or things that you think are too far out of the realm of possibility, don't hesitate to let me know!


	11. Chapter 10

* * *

**TONOPAH ELECTRONIC WARFARE RANGE (AKA "AREA 52")  
NEVADA TEST SITE  
2009080 | 0338 | ZULU**

* * *

"I know you said there would be more than a few agencies here, but I didn't think there would be _this_ many," Hudson whispered to Castor, who was seated right next to him.

"_I _didn't expect there to be this many," his colleague replied. "This has to be _every _Federal agency!"

Both men scanned the room, each taking note of the various expressions worn by the representatives of the different agencies seated at the massive, circular conference table. The impact of the moment wasn't lost on either man; it was rare that so many government organizations came together with a singular purpose.

The fact that each attendant was similarly dressed drove home that singularity of purpose. Every man at the table wore a plain black suit and matching tie and a white dress shirt – even the General who was conferring with an unknown man off to the side of the room. Every woman wore a similar black blazer and skirt combination along with a white blouse.

Without knowing it, each man was thinking that the lot of them resembled something more along the lines of what they imagined members of the Soviet Politburo looked like.

Of course, both men knew that the plain, similar clothing served a purpose. At this table, for however long it took for the two men to present their findings and take questions, there was no rank or title. Each man was "Sir," and each woman was, "Ma'am." There were no names, only faces. The goal was anonymity for not just the individuals present but for the various masters they served. In the post-9/11 world, this was how different branches of the military shared information with various domestic and external intelligence services. While neither man enjoyed the 'cloak-and-dagger' routine they were both painfully aware of the legal roadblocks to the sharing of information.

"Looks like there are people from someone else's Federal agency too," Hudson stated, nodding towards a large, rectangular panel of mirrored glass on the far side of the room and the row of men sitting beneath it wearing headphones that looked like they were manufactured in the seventies. The 'conference' room was actually a mock command center for Red Flag exercises – air-combat war games – hosted yearly by the Nellis Air Force Complex of which Tonopah was a part. This particular command center was for military officials from allied nations, many of which weren't English-speaking. Thus translators, listening in from the booth which lay beyond the mirrored glass, were needed.

The unstated question was, 'Why are foreign parties being briefed on a matter of American National Security?'

Both men knew better than to voice the question out loud in the presence of others.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if we could begin?" This came from the General, who'd just finished a quiet but boisterous conversation with a man who, though neither Castor or Hudson knew by name, both men knew represented the NSA. He took his place, standing behind his chair at the table with Hudson and Castor directly to his left and a female stenographer to his right.

The few muted conversations that had been going on ceased entirely as two armed guards entered the room. They were both enlisted Air Force men, but like everyone else they were dressed in simple black suits. There was no effort by either man to conceal the butt of the handguns that protruded from either of their suit jackets.

"As should be obvious by our attire,:" the General continued, running his hands along the lapels of the jacket of his own 'plain black suit,' which made Hudson think of the first act of _Real Genius_, "this meeting is being conducted under National Security directives for the sharing of intelligence across agencies. While everyone in this room should be aware of the protocol, I will remind you for the record that during this briefing none of us have names. We are to identify each other as only 'Sir' or 'Ma'am.' Now, I am aware that a number of you will be reporting to various individuals within your respective agencies. Let me remind you that those same National Security directives allow you to share what you hear in this room today with _only _those individuals on whose behalf you've been assigned to this proceeding. Sharing of information with unauthorized individuals, and that would be _anyone _other than your direct superiors, constitutes treason against the government of these United States and will be punished accordingly. By the directives governing these proceedings I'm now authorized and required to offer anyone who is unwilling to adhere to protocol the chance to leave the room."

As expected, no one moved.

Smiling, slightly, the out-of-uniform head of _Project Titan's Shield _nodded to the guards at the door, who engaged an electronic lock.

To the stenographer he said, "Take note that all attendants have chosen to stay and that the room has been secured."

Several of the people at the table began looking around and murmuring to one another, clearly never having attended a meeting taking place under these directives. It amused both of the General's men, for it looked and felt much more 'black bag' than it actually was. When the brief display ceased the General nodded to Hudson, who stood to address the group.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you're probably well aware the last eighteen hours have seen some extremely unusual activity take place with regard to the civilian Internet. To recap, at approximately eleven-hundred hours yesterday morning Internet access was cut off to approximately ninety-seven percent of users in the US Pacific Time Zone. This happened when a piece of malware called a 'logic bomb' was activated, or we could say detonated, on a large number of infected computers simultaneously." Hudson paused, taking a quick moment to gauge the expressions on the faces of every individual to see whether or not a further explanation of what a logic bomb actually did was warranted.

He couldn't help but notice that his detonation joke fell flat with everyone but his partner.

Noting the look of confusion on several faces he continued, "In simple terms, a logic bomb is a set of instructions contained inside an executable file that has replaced a common executable that controls a word processing program, or an electronic organizer or an email application. In this instance infected computers were told to send small bits of data called packets to their Internet providers. By themselves these packets of data are harmless. Sent from one, one hundred or even one hundred thousand computers at a time the internet providers wouldn't even notice. Our attacker, or attackers, was able to infect far more than that number in this case. By our estimate this malware was present in approximately seventy percent of computers who receive their Internet service through exchange points west of Las Vegas."

"So what you're saying, then," interrupted a man at the far end of the table, likely a representative of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, "is that seventy percent of the computers in the western United States pinged their Internet service providers at once?"

"Exactly," Hudson replied.

"Pinged?" This came from an older gentleman directly across the table who had the bearing of a military man. "I take it that you're not referring to the act of 'pinging' in the nautical sense."

"Technically no, sir, though the processes are analogous. In the same way a sonar operator on board a naval submarine directs a pulse of energy - a ping - toward an enemy submarine to gauge distance, a computer operator uses a software command of the same name to gauge Internet connectivity," Castor said.

"A _ping flood_," the JTTF man said, incredulously, to no one in particular. Several faces at the table, those who understood the meaning of the term, wore looks that indicated they shared his disbelief.

"You'll have to elaborate, son," said the older man directly across from Hudson who'd spoken earlier. "Some of us aren't as.... good with computers as the two of you are."

"Very well, Sir," Hudson continued. "To the point, computers can be programmed to do almost anything a programmer can conceive of. This attacker wrote a simple command program that instructed a computer to do something it does routinely, something that under normal circumstances wouldn't be considered harmful. As was mentioned earlier, hundreds of thousands... even millions of computers can 'talk' to their Internet servers the same way at the same time without incident, essentially asking each other, 'Are you there?' Imagine..." he stopped and looked towards the General, unsure if he should continue to elaborate for the older man's benefit.

His superior nodded, smiling slightly. From this superior, it was more than enough to show his confidence in the younger man.

He continued, standing just a little bit straighter than he already was, "Imagine an analog telephone network."

He didn't notice the General's smile get wider, nor did he notice Castor roll his eyes as he mouthed the word, 'Phreaker,' at no one in particular.

"Before digital switching, phone calls had to be routed manually by human operators in regional call centers. A call center could only handle so much volume at once. If more people attempted to make calls than the center could handle, those calls had to be routed to another center. If enough people made calls at the same time, there would eventually cease to be _any_ available call centers and the system would come to a standstill. The situation here is similar - as more of these packets were sent out asking the Internet provider's server, 'Are you there?' other servers had to come on-line to fill the requests. One by one, each Internet exchange point, the 'call centers' of the Internet, became overwhelmed and eventually Internet traffic came to a virtual standstill."

A look of understanding came across the older man's face, indicating that Castor's example had helped drive the point home.

"Is our electronic infrastructure truly that vulnerable?" This came from the JTTF man.

"In this case it was," Hudson replied. Like the JTTF man, several others who were technically inclined seemed to scoff at the suggestion. "While a cyber-attack of this magnitude has always been theoretically possible, we've never seen a piece of malware achieve such high level of saturation."

"You said, 'In simple terms,' just a moment ago, young man. Simplify them further," the older gentleman across the table demanded in a way that suggested he didn't like repeating himself.

"My apologies, Sir. Level of saturation refers to the amount of computers infected by the same piece of malware. Anti-malware vendors are quick to update their software in response to new threats long before a they reach this many computers."

"And this... malware," stated an exotic-looking woman of Indian descent seated next to the JTTF man "just slipped by them?"

"It bears pointing out, Ladies and Gentlemen, that when we use the terms, 'malware,' or 'virus,' that we're not actually speaking of a piece of 'malware' or a 'virus' in the traditional sense," Castor stated to the entire assembly. "To answer your question, Ma'am," he singled out the attractive, olive-skinned woman, "while we're calling it 'malicious code,' the infected computers didn't see it as such. As my associate pointed out, the 'ping' command is a valid one that in most cases wouldn't be viewed as harmful by the computer, even one using very good anti-virus software - like the kind used by our agency. Most of the agencies represented at this table, ours included, have a number of 'dummy' computers connected to the civilian Internet purportedly holding classified information. The goal, of course, is to lure hackers and observe their methods and, if we're lucky, track them down. Our Internet security software didn't stop our machines from being 'infected.'"

"In fact," Hudson added, "the only good it did was alert a very observant member of our staff to the fact that the machine in question was constantly making and breaking connections with a remote computer. We only realized what was happening when we learned that the remote computer was one of our civilian ISP's servers. Had that staff member not taken the initiative to review an obscure report we may not be having this briefing right now."

"This... malicious code, as you're calling it, affected _just _the US Pacific Time Zone," stated an African-American man with a waxed head seated between the stenographer and the older man who wasn't good with computers. "Why not the entire country, or even the entire Internet?"

"_Theory of logic," _came a voice from a speaker at the center of the table which drew to it the eyes of everyone but the General.

The voice was unmistakable, at least to Castor and Hudson. 'General Ashdown,' both men thought. Hudson took this as his cue to sit down, knowing full well what was coming next.

The older man who'd needed a better explanation of the effect of a ping flood turned towards the General, his facial features taking on an edge of severity. He wasn't happy to realize that another party had been listening in without making his presence known.

The Air Force General's smile got even bigger, though he never focusing on the older man. "I should have mentioned earlier, there is another party joining us remotely. Do go on, " he said, indicating the waxed-headed man.

"I'm sorry," he continued, "theory of logic?"

"_The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, and last year's Independence Day cyber-terrorist attack. What do all these events have in common?"_

The man hesitated, clearly not sure of the answer. Again glancing at each other, both Hudson and Castor realized that they probably should know, but neither did.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I don't know the answer to that," the man, who had the agreeable yet curious manner of an FBI agent, replied.

"Everything happens for a reason," the General quipped from the near end of the table, his gaze falling on the older man who'd spoken earlier.

"I don't know what sort of game the two of you are playing," that same man said with the sort of defiant attitude that people didn't direct at the General seated only a short distance away, or _the _General speaking remotely, "but you'd best make whatever point you're trying to make!"

"_The point is," _Ashdown continued, his volume slightly louder, "_as our chairman stated, that _everything _indeed happens for a reason - a reason that isn't immediately discernible but that becomes clear in short order once our analysts have had a chance to examine the situation objectively. The Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan, for instance, seemed utterly illogical when it happened. It was viewed by the public as nothing but a Superpower throwing its weight around by attacking an "easy" target. I should think that given what business we're in we should all understand that Afghanistan is not, nor has it ever been, an "easy" target, despite what some agencies would have you believe."_

Several people, likely representatives of the CIA, grimaced at the comment.

Conversely, a number of others - representatives of the different branches of the military - nodded in agreement. The man with the attitude actually softened his features into a grin, but only for a brief moment.

"_In fact the invasion was not a display of Soviet power, but an attempt to gain access to a seaport that could be kept in service year-round, which few of their own were able to do because of the frigid cold of a Russian winter. Likewise, the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor on the surface seemed like the most illogical thing the Japanese could have done, for it drew us into the Second World War and paved the way for the destruction of their Empire. Of course, that's because the attack was largely a failure. Sure it was crippling psychologically for all of a minute, but from a military perspective it was a failure since its primary objectives, the destruction of our Pacific Fleet's fuel supply, as well as our aircraft carrier force, were not met. Had those aspects of their mission been accomplished and had the Japanese seen the way clear to move on to the less well publicized second stage of the attack, the landing of ground forces on the West Coast, they would have very likely stopped or significantly slowed our counter-attack."_

Exasperated, the older gentleman leaned forward from his seat, quickly, in a manner that suggested he thought Ashdown would be startled, even intimidated, by the sudden motion were he actually standing in front of the man. "You're giving us all a fine history lesson," he said suggestively, obviously aware of the Air Force Chief of Staff's former role as an instructor, "but I'm still waiting for the point! We _did _come to be briefed on events taking place in the here and now!"

Ashdown continued, ignoring the interruption, _"I mentioned the recent acts perpetrated by our old friend and colleague Thomas Gabriel; I shouldn't have to explain that situation, but since so many of us were directly involved and directly failed to do our jobs properly, I'm going to. He duped all of us into thinking that our nation was being held for ransom when in fact Mr. Gabriel was getting back at us for not taking him seriously. He came before us and showed us that our world could be turned upside down with a laptop and a wireless networking card anyone could buy their neighborhood electronics store! If there has ever been a more monumental failure on the part of people who are expected NOT to fail, I don't know about it."_

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Several faces at the table dipped in embarrassment, most notably the man across the table who had, so far, been the most belligerent.

A thought was forming in Hudson's mind as he looked to his friend. They needed no words to communicate the fact that they were both thinking the same thing yet again.

_"Now you know what these events had in common. There was an objective that was very clear to the aggressive parties, but one which wasn't immediately clear to us. We've just heard the technical explanation for what's happened. Theory of logic, ladies and gentlemen. Everything happens for a reason. What is the reason here? We don't yet know how this malware was disbursed, but you heard it stated that there's never been a cyber-attack of this magnitude - nearly 70% saturation across a huge geographic area. To pull this off the attackers had to be sophisticated. If they're so sophisticated, why do they take the time to pull a stunt like this? Why did they stop at 70% when at that point they might as well have gone the distance? Why just the western US; why not the whole country? Why not the whole continent?"_

"You're asking more questions," the older man, who was very clearly General Ashdown's _military_ rival, challenged. "How about giving us some answers!"

"He's asking the right questions, ones _we _should have been asking yesterday when we first realized something was happening," stated the Indian-looking woman, her tone a condescending. "Wouldn't you agree?"

The older man was irritated with the suggestion but didn't counter it, though if looks could kill the dark haired, olive-skinned woman would be lying on the floor dead. Both Castor and Hudson came to the conclusion that there was some sort of professional rivalry between the older man and the exotic-looking woman, to say nothing of the interaction between him and the two Air Force Generals. It stood to reason that the older man was not only a General, or possibly an Admiral, but a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff who had, along with Ashdown, seen Thomas Gabriel defeat NORAD's cyber-security right in front of him, 'With a laptop and a wireless networking card anyone could buy at their neighborhood electronics store.'

"Has the possibility been considered that this was a test run?" This question came from a nondescript woman seated immediately to Castor's left.

"The thought has occurred to us, yes Ma'am," Hudson replied, noting as this woman exchanged looks with the woman of Indian descent. "In line with the gentleman speaking remotely, we've been on the watch for reputable chatter in the hacker community. As you're probably aware, people who have no link to an event will claim responsibility just to draw attention to themselves. There is no indication that any such party was actually involved – so far. If this was the precursor to a larger attack we would almost certainly have some indication of that. The fact that we don't suggests that if there was a goal, it has been achieved and we will discover it or it will be revealed through intelligence-gathering. "

"_That's not good enough,"_ Ashdown said, intensely. _"The point, that our colleague demanded I get to, is that we're a step behind this aggressor. We need to know more than whether or not he accomplished his goal, we need to determine his motive!"_

"For once, I agree with him," the possible General or Admiral added.

"As do I," stated the exotic-looking woman. "We need viable intelligence, not supposition."

A general murmur of agreement filled the room.

"Everyone in this room understands the need to both collect and share information among our various agencies if we're going to be the ones who are a step ahead. Our agency has brought what it has to the table. I wasn't informed that any of you had anything to contribute," the General stated, more intense now than he'd been at any point so far. "Have I been misinformed?"

Several moments of silence from the assembled delegates, as well as the speaker at the center of the table, confirmed that he had not been.

"This facility has extended the courtesy of its use to each and every agency represented here. I suggest we call a halt to these proceedings and take some time to confer with our superiors. We can reconvene later when new information comes to light. Until then I declare us to be in recess, unless there is an objection?"

The look on any number of the faces indicated that a good number of the attendants were not satisfied with what they'd heard so far. Of course, that was irrelevant to the General, who knew that his men had shared everything they knew, though he doubted that his friend and superior officer who'd joined them remotely had done the same.

"Very well," he said, nodding to the guards who deactivated the locking mechanism and released the door. It took no more than a minute for the room to empty out, save the General, Castor and Hudson. "Confer with our people at the home base, and figure out how this thing was delivered. I want, at the very least, a theory by the time I call this group back into session. Understood?"

Both men came to attention and saluted, Hudson not bothering to care that "officially" he was no longer an Air Force officer and neither man thinking of how ridiculous two men in out of uniform looked saluting a superior officer in the same predicament.

Returning the salute and dismissing his subordinates, General Robert Brewster hoped that he hadn't just sent his men off on a fool's errand. When he was the only one left in the room he turned his attention back to the speaker at the center of the conference table. "Alright, Tyler, what do you know that you haven't shared with us?"

* * *

**2009080 | 0401 | ZULU**

* * *

The waiting area outside the mock command center turned conference room was abuzz with activity. Aides and advisers of the attendees crowded around them, looking to both Castor and Hudson like so many stooges and worthless hang-a-rounds. It was doubtful that the majority of them had the proper security clearance to be told what their superiors had just learned and, as such, had no purpose being on the base. Uniformed guards acted as ushers, urging the mass of people to move along to more private areas that had been set aside for each agency, but the sheer mass of bodies that needed to be moved made the task a formidable one. To one degree or another, the non-military agencies either looked down upon, or didn't trust the military, and their representatives were complying with the guards as slow as they possibly could.

After several minutes, and relatively few angry outbursts by people who felt the uniformed men had no right to direct them, the area was cleared and it was possible for the two men to move about freely.

"This was a mistake. I understand the need to share information, but getting all these opposing factions together is a recipe for disaster," Hudson said, regretfully.

Castor picked up on the vibe. "I hear you. It's more like a meeting of the UN General Assembly rather than the combined security forces of a single nation. I thought we were all on the same side!" In an attempt to lighten the other man's suddenly sour mood, the First Lieutenant decided to inject some humor into the conversation; "At least they got your analog phone network analogy, _phreaker,_" he said with mock disdain.

"Hey, it's a good analogy," Hudson shot back, his mood suddenly lightening. Then, getting back to business, he added, "Something is up. We had at least another few minutes of material to present and he just called it quits."

"You're right, 'something is up;' Ashdown knows something, and our boss knows he knows something, but he wants to give the man the chance to reveal it in private before sharing it with that crowd of empty suits. Can you believe we're wasting time briefing all of them?"

"At least the Indian-looking woman seemed to know what was going on. The Joint Terrorism Task Force guy, too. What did you make of that computer-illiterate General?"

Castor caught the inference of rank, even though neither of them knew the man. "You got the impression that he was a professional rival of our boss's boss too?"

"Come on, he has to be some high-ranking officer! No one challenges Ashdown like that! Hell, no one challenges _Brewster _like that! 'Simplify things further,'" the 'former' Officer mocked.

"Take it easy, bud. He got the gist of things in the end. All we were required to do was brief them on the material in a way they could understand. Mission accomplished, I say."

Something caught Hudson's eye, causing him to lose focus on his response. "Look whose here," he bid his partner turn and notice someone they hadn't expected to see.

A look of surprise came over the shorter Castor. "What's _she _doing here?"

Hudson shrugged. Neither man knew exactly what position the tall, slender Lieutenant, whose first name neither of them knew, held in their particular unit.

No sooner had the two men noticed her then she fixed her glance on them and made her way over, gliding gracefully across the floor with smooth, precise steps that seemed more like the motions of a ballroom dancer than a person just walking casually across a room.

"Lieutenant Cain," Castor greeted, bowing his head slightly.

"Lieutenant Castor, Mister Hudson," she replied, her intonation livelier when addressing the first man.

"I wasn't aware you were here," Castor said, genuinely surprised.

"I'm serving as a temporary aide to General Brewster, which is why I've been assigned to the 595th," she replied, revealing more about herself in that brief statement than she had in the entire time the two men had known her. "I was told to wait for him here."

"He'll be along... eventually," Hudson said.

"I see," Cain replied, not bothering to break eye contact with Castor.

Hudson didn't fail to notice that she hadn't stopped smiling at him, either. To his annoyance, his friend was grinning like an idiot.

"Join us for coffee, then," Castor offered, with the 'take charge' confidence he was known for when dealing with the opposite sex.

It was just then that Hudson noticed that the woman was just slightly taller than him, and several inches taller than Castor. He suspected she wasn't the type to respond well to that 'take charge' confidence. It was just as well. They had no time to sit around and make small talk. Her response would be a disdainful smirk as she walked away with her nose in the air - Hudson was sure of it.

Unexpectedly, her smile got even bigger.

"I would like to," she said, almost cheerfully, "but I was told to wait here. _Orders._"

"I understand," Castor replied.

"I'm sure we'll have an opportunity to... have coffee... another time, once we've returned to Cheyenne Mountain," she offered.

Something about the way she said, "Have coffee," struck Hudson as extremely odd. She was, by all appearances, a woman who had control over any situation. When she said _those _words, indeed the entire suggestion seemed... unfamiliar? He couldn't imagine that she'd never asked a man to have coffee with her, but the way she said it reminded Hudson of a time in college when he'd asked a girl out for a drink - the _first _time.

Or was he just over-thinking it in his jealousy?

"Let's do that," Castor replied, now grinning like an even bigger idiot. "If you'll excuse us," he said, motioning for Hudson to follow him.

"Right," Hudson said, disgusted. "Lieutenant," he directed at Cain with finality.

"Mister Hudson," she replied, her parting acknowledgment as flat as his own.

The idiotic grin Castor was wearing stayed on his face as the two men started to walk away when Castor suddenly stopped and turned around. "Lieutenant?"

The young woman stopped, but didn't bother to turn and face her potential suitor.

Undeterred by the action, Castor stepped back toward her. When he came around to face her he noticed for the first time the single silver bar pinned to the shoulder epaulets of her uniform jacket. Being a fellow First Lieutenant, he couldn't pull rank. "Forgive me for holding you up, but I just realized that I don't know your first name. I'd like to rectify that," he said confidently.

In the time since they'd bid her goodbye her expression had returned to the neutral one she'd quickly become known for since her transfer. When it didn't immediately soften, he thought he might have jumped the proverbial gun.

But after not too many more seconds, the slightest of smiles formed at her lips. "Melinda," she finally said.

"Melinda," he echoed. "I like it."

"That makes two of us," she replied as she moved around him. "You best not keep your associate waiting," she added. "General Brewster may require my assistance any moment."

"Very well," he replied, and walked over where Hudson was standing, watching the entire scene unfold. "Shall we?"

The taller man shook his head as the two men made their way out of the room, and down a corridor leading towards an Officers' Lounge.

"You're gonna have to have that grin surgically removed," Hudson said. "I think you need a reminder about fraternization in the ranks."

"Now that's how it's done in the Big Leagues, my boy; you see an opening, you go for it," Castor replied, proudly, ignoring the verbal jab from his partner.

"Spare me," the taller man replied, not bothering to hide his distaste.

"I told you she smiled at me. You didn't believe me, so I think I've earned this stupid grin. Have you ever seen such a perfect smile? Good God, man, I think I'm in love! And those cheeks..."

"Alright, alright, alright! She's a knockout, no question about it," Hudson replied reluctantly. If he was being honest, the term 'knockout' didn't do her justice. In addition to the perfect smile, he couldn't recall a woman with a more perfect complexion; her face was without a visible blemish or even the hint of a blemish concealed by makeup. Come to think of it, she didn't seem to wear _any _noticeable makeup. No one would be dubbing her 'Revlon' anytime soon. And he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen so natural a blonde. "Plus she gave you a rain check for coffee, so you'll be seeing her again. Well done. You are one long-legged mack-daddy, now quit being so pleased with yourself. You're literally making me ill!"

"Jealousy doesn't become you, _Mister _Hudson," Castor quipped.

"Get over it. We have a job to do, in case you've forgotten," Hudson fired back.

"You wouldn't be all-business if she'd been making eyes at _you!_"

The former Lieutenant rolled his eyes and released an exasperated sigh. "Where are those guards? Someone needs to shoot me. Now."

His friend just laughed in response.

Neither man had any indication that the attractive young woman's primary focus hadn't been on the flirtatious conversation she'd been having with the egotistical Lieutenant Castor, but rather the private conversation taking place beyond the closed door of the sound-proof conference room - a conversation that could only be heard from the outside by a being with a cybernetically augmented auditory system.

* * *

**2009080 | 0407 | ZULU**

* * *

For as long as Brewster had known him, Tyler Ashdown had been a man who stayed one step ahead of everyone else. Though his superior Officer and oldest friend would never admit it, Brewster believed, strongly, that the man truly had a sixth sense. He just seemed to know how to solve complex problems - a gift that served him well in his position as Air Force Chief of Staff.

Of course the slightly younger man, two years younger to be precise, knew that the senior General's extremely gifted staff played a part, but it was his friend's unique way of looking at things and his skill at drawing on the talents of others and pooling their resources that made him such an effective leader. That talented staff rivaled Brewster's own.

"You're holding out on me, Tyler. As such this whole exercise was a waste of time, and right now neither of us can afford to be wasting time," Brewster said, impatiently.

Cyber warfare, both offensive and defensive, was the Air Force's game, almost exclusively. Both men knew that there were rumblings inside the new administration of changing that, and neither General was keen on the possibility of other agencies involving themselves in that. What went unsaid between the two men was that the threat of their secrets being revealed was a greater risk than anything external.

_"It's not you_ _I'm holding out on you, Bob. There are people at that table whose goals aren't the same as yours and mine - it's _them _I'm holding out on."_

He hadn't emphasized the 'yours and mine,' but those were the words Brewster focused on. He wondered, not for the first time, if his goals and those of his old friend were truly one and the same.

_"Besides," _Ashdown continued, _"none of them have the security clearance necessary to know what I'm about to tell you - not even your men."_

'The moment of truth,' Brewster thought.

_"In examining an infected box my people didn't learn anything that yours didn't already know. What we _did _learn was that someone was able to pass information between exchange points in the Pacific Time Zone unobstructed while everyone else was seeing 'Server Not Found' errors."_

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would the attackers shut off access to the Internet across an entire time zone just to transfer data? They could have done that without going through the trouble."

_"You're right," _the senior General said, knowingly.

'Of course, "Theory of Logic,"' the junior General thought. His mentor could finish practically every sentence with the title of the course he'd spent the majority of his career teaching. He'd taught the next generation of Officers, literally every man and woman on active duty below the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, that understanding not just the enemy's actions but also his motivations was the most important aspect of strategic planning.

_"We examined the activity logs from every server at each individual exchange point. It sounds like we were looking for a needle in a haystack, but the truth is we found what we were looking for almost immediately. My people are at a loss to explain how, but while the Internet was essentially shut off to everyone on the west coast _someone _was able to move data unobstructed."_

"That's... " Brewster wanted to say, 'impossible,' "well, obviously its not impossible, but it defies convention."

"_Yes it does."_

"Do we know where the file transfer originated?"

"_Every exchange point in the Mountain Time Zone."_

That _truly _defied convention. "How is that possible?"

_"We don't know. We don't even have a theory."_

"Obviously they targeted the Pacific Time Zone. Do we know who received it?"

"_My people think its sitting on a hidden server somewhere waiting to be accessed by whomever the intended party is. We don't know who that intended party is; again, we don't even have an idea. What we _do _know is that it passed through servers connected to the specific exchange points that serve the Greater Los Angeles area, though..."_

"What?"

"_They could have passed this through every IXP on the West Coast, and we would have no idea where its final destination was. They specifically target the conduits that serve those exchange points. Even though we don't know specifically who, we know where and as such we can compile a list of suspects."_

"And people this sophisticated wouldn't make that mistake. So what, they did it this way on purpose just so we'd notice?

"_What other explanation is there?"_

"Just another on an ever-growing list of questions we don't have answers to. So we don't know where it came from, and we don't know where it went, but we know that the receiving party is in LA. You talk about needles in haystacks... I need to be able to send these people away with _something_. The President..."

_"The President is incompetent," _Ashdown interrupted. _"He's no better than the last three. Hell, he's even more naive. If... _when _a situation develops requiring our particular expertise it'll be his Chief of Staff who handles it. You have clearance to discuss everything I've told you up to this point with your men as well as that bureaucrat convention. I'm sure it will suffice, for now. As to the question, 'What do I know that I haven't shared with you,' that information is for you and you alone - is that clear, Lieutenant-General Brewster?"_

"Yes, Sir," Brewster replied, noting the shift in his mentor's tenor. 'Rank and protocol; he's giving me an order without actually giving me an order.'

"_Very well. The data was compressed into a 5,706Kb file, MP3 format."_

'MP3... A music file?'

"_Whomever uploaded it disguised it almost perfectly, to the point that were you to open the file your media player wouldn't know that it was anything but a music file. Would you like to hear a sample?"_

A beeping sound drew Brewster's attention to the laptop stored in a travel-case under his chair. Opening it, he found that his friend and superior Officer was attempting to initiate a direct connection over their private network.

"It's not going to be the kind of music my daughter is fond of, is it?"

"_Actually, its a little before her time," _Ashdown replied with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Within seconds the file was transferred and the computer's media player automatically opened it. The title of the track – **"King of Babylon" **_- _jumped out at him, though he couldn't immediately place it.

Seconds later, he heard a very heavy synthesized guitar chord and an accompanying, "YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH," followed by an electric guitar riff that was the definition of "period piece."

He felt like he'd been transported back in time.

A simple baseline was joined by rhythm as the opening synthesizer chord repeated. Seconds later a flamboyant male voice spoke, rather than sung, the first words:

- _Come on everybody, get off your seats! -  
- There's Royalty in the house; groove to the beat! -_

After several repetitions of the chord a group of vocal backers added the chorus:

_- Hey little girl, let's get it on, -  
- rocking with the King of Babylon! -  
- Hey little girl, you can't go wrong, -  
- rocking with the King of Babylon! -  
- Hey little girl, all night long, -  
- rocking with the King of Babylon! -  
- Hey little girl, let's get it on, -  
- rocking with the King of Babylon! -_

Embarrassed over the mental image of himself and his now senior Officer as newly-promoted First Lieutenants dancing the night away on a yacht in Miami with two women they'd met after consuming considerably more than the "legal limit" of alcohol, Brewster quickly closed the media player.

"_Brings back memories, doesn't it?"_

"I hope you're not about to tell me that there's a message in this particular song choice?"

"_You mean, do I think that someone dug so deep into our past that they discovered that we spent several nights in Miami on leave after our first promotions, that we got liquored up with a couple of beach bunnies and spent the night partying on a drug kingpin's yacht _and _the name of the song that the 'celebrity' performer was playing when you and your date fell overboard? No, my rational mind tells me that's not possible. My people have suggested that its an allusion to the ancient Babylonian Empire and its eventual fall due to the diversion of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Diversion, fall of an empire - logic tells us that there is a message in these themes. Who the recipient of the message is we don't know, but there's clearly a message."_

"A message that caught _our _attention. Doesn't that seem convenient?"

_"Someone wants us to think so."_

"So we're not dealing with the run-of-the-mill cyber-terrorist, or even another Thomas Gabriel."

_"It almost seems like they've read our book, doesn't it?"_

"In your professional opinion, General, is this an inside job or someone who wants us to _think_ its an inside job?"

_"It's one or the other," _the superior Officer stated flatly.

The junior General relaxed his elbows and let his face fall into the palms of his hands. A moment later he asked, "Charles Fischer?"

_"It's funny you mentioned him. Doesn't it strike you as odd that none of your guests mentioned him? With the exception of you, your men, and possibly the people who are there on behalf of the Congressional Intelligence Committees, no one in that room knows about the Fischer incident. Want to know why? Don't close the connection because, I'm about to send you something else that will take you back in time."_

A series of unfamiliar characters started scrolling across Brewster's screen, slowly, one at a time. Then they started coming two, three and four at a time. After a few seconds there was an entire line of code, no more than a dozen characters long scrolling across the screen. Individually, Brewster would have never recognized the characters for what they were. Only when they came together did they take him back in time - a time that would change his life and his career.

"Mother of God," he whispered. "This... this was supposed to have been destroyed, a long time ago!"

"_It was destroyed, along with ten years of research based on it. No one involved knew this language, so they had no idea how to recreate it. We should know – we've been trying to recreate it since 1995."_

"Then where did _this _come from?"

"_As much as we don't want to accept it there's really only one answer to that question, isn't there?"_

"Tyler... You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?"

"_I'm opening my mind to the only possible explanation. You and I were part of the team that examined the remains from that factory. This changed our lives! We've been trying to make sense of this for twenty-five years! I'd rather there be _any _answer other than the one neither of us wants to entertain. Hell, it would be easier to believe that Groom Lake actually holds what's left of an alien space-ship and that this is machine language from an advanced civilization of extra-terrestrials, but we know that's not where it came from."_

"We don't _know _anything!"

"_Robert, we _do _know. I've never known you to play the skeptic; why the change of heart?"_

"Because I'm not ready to accept that Cyberdyne Systems found a piece of technology that supposedly came from the future, that it spent ten years attempting to reverse-engineer it and that we picked up the pieces after a 'random act of terrorism' conveniently wiped out Cyberdyne and all their research. Theory of logic, _professor. _Where's the logic in this explanation? And what does this have to do with Charles Fischer?"

"_Eliminate all other possibilities and that which remains, however improbable, _must _be correct. We saw the tape of the interrogation of a man who claimed to be twenty-seven years old with no birth certificate, no Social Security number and no fingerprints on file even in a database of elementary school children. Then, low and behold, a match shows up eighteen years later in a Los Angeles County K-12 registry belonging to a six-year-old who just happened to be named Kyle Reese. Charles Fischer had an air-tight alibi that placed him somewhere else at the moment the Department of Homeland Security's mainframe was infiltrated by the most advanced trojan program you or I have ever seen, a program that also happens to include characters that belong to this particular machine language."_

From the moment he saw the machine code belonging to the Cyberdyne microprocessor scroll across his screen, the junior General knew that his friend and superior was going to bring this up. He remembered sitting in stunned disbelief for the better part of an hour after he'd received that information less than two years earlier courtesy of the older man. The two of them hadn't discussed it once, nor had his old friend mentioned that the Fischer trojan was based on the same code.

_"Would you care to present your alternate theory, General?"_

"You know I don't have one," Brewster admitted. He'd privately entertained the idea that the young man he'd seen on the interrogation video was telling the truth for a long time. Why was he trying to deny it now?

"_And while we're sitting here arguing about it," _Ashdown said, snapping Brewster out of his private introspection, _"_someone _is maneuvering! I don't know who that person is or what their goal is and, frankly, I couldn't even guess if you were to ask me. My gut is telling me that this whole event was just the beginning. I don't know what its the beginning of, but its something big. I'm not used to not having a clue, and I don't like it."_

"Do you believe Fischer is somehow responsible for yesterday's attack?"

_"Fischer has been in solitary confinement and under constant surveillance. Add to that my people have talked to him and examined every detail of his life from birth to the moment he supposedly uploaded that trojan."_

"Supposedly? Meaning you don't think he did it?"

_"Have _you _seen his interrogation tapes? He's either the greatest liar on the planet or someone's turned him into history's greatest stool-pigeon. I lean towards the latter suggestion. Jesus, Bob, we're just now getting to the point where we can recreate what we found in that factory - and that's with the sort of equipment only our Government could afford. Charles Fischer does not, nor has he ever, had access to anything that he could use to create software as sophisticated as what we pulled out of the DHS mainframe! Even if he did have access to the technology he doesn't have the finesse to pull off something like this. _

"So how do you want me to play it here? I told my men I wanted a theory. I need to be able to send these people away with _something_."

"_Your men are smart - they're going to come to the same conclusion, they're just not going to have all the details. As for the rest of those do-nothings, they're useless anyway. Let them walk away without having really learned anything - it could work to your advantage later."_

A plan was starting to come together in Brewster's head. "I understand. My report will be forthcoming."

"_I'll be waiting," _came Ashdown's terse reply.

When the connection was cut Brewster relaxed, but only for a moment before the weight of twenty-five years of clandestine activities came crashing down on him. The magnificent discovery in a factory that belonged to Cyberdyne Systems, the associated stories of a man who claimed to come from a post-apocalyptic future, his eventual promotion to head of Cyber Research Systems with its focus on _Project Titan's Shield - _his whole career seemed to be building toward a moment. He expected it to be the successful completion of _Titan's Shield_ - the activation of the Skynet Defense System. From the moment he'd been handed a file containing a finger-print match between a full-grown man who died in 1984 and a child of six years age in 2007 he felt as though his world had been turned upside down. Far from turning it right side up, the information his friend had just shared with him was making him more and more aware of a voice of caution in his mind - one he'd been trying to ignore. He found in that moment that he couldn't help but reflect on the day he met a young Cyberdyne engineer named Miles Dyson - a visionary who believed he could start a twenty-first century Industrial Revolution by picking up the pieces of a broken machine.

* * *

**2009080 | 0430 | ZULU**

* * *

The representatives of eighteen Federal agencies, the various branches of the military and the Intelligence Committees of both houses of Congress had been given private rooms to confer with their staffs and make contact with their superiors.

Each of them expected that their communications would be private.

The representative of the Senate Intelligence Committee, an aide to long-time member Senator Bond of Missouri, knew better.

Inter-agency information sharing was a difficult thing, for each agency kept tabs on the other the same way rival nations spied on each other. She was especially mindful of the way things worked within the Nellis Complex. While security at Tonopah was slightly more relaxed than at its sister facility, Detachment 3, or Area 51 as it was commonly known, it was still impossible to communicate with anyone off-site without the conversation being monitored.

She felt bad for the single member of her three-person staff that had made the trek from the main base to the plane by foot with her. He could have stayed behind in the air-conditioned comfort of the pavilion that was hosting the clandestine gathering, yet he chose to go along with her. It was surprising, since Chiefs of Staff to Senators tended to act more like Senator's themselves when it came to having accommodations. He was fair-skinned, and the early morning desert sun couldn't have been comfortable for him as the two made their way down the long shuttle-way adjacent to Runway 14/32. Her own darker coloring, inherited from her Indian mother, was much more accommodating to the locale. Of course the two of them had been offered motorized transport back to the private plane that had brought them from Washington D.C., but they had no intention of holding a conversation in front of Tonopah personnel.

Now that she was back on the plane, she considered that she might have forced him to make the trip for nothing as the plane's communications equipment could just as easily be tapped. It wasn't the prospect of relaying what she'd learned about the cyber-attacks, which wasn't much all things considered, to those people she was officially working on behalf of or those people she was _unofficially_ working on behalf of. Truthfully, she imagined that Mr. Emanuel knew everything that had been said already.

No, it was relaying this information to people who meant a great deal more to her, people who had no affiliation with any United States Government agency.

If what they knew and what they were working on were to become known, they would likely be considered enemies of that Government, as would she.

Her second assistant, the one who'd stayed with the plane as she was little more than a secretary and attendant, came through the door of the private compartment that served as the Senator's aide's mobile office with a pitcher of ice water and a glass on a platter.

"I thought you might be thirsty after that long walk from the terminal," the younger woman said with more enthusiasm than was warranted. She was an intern, barely 24, who just happened to be the only member of the Senator's junior staff available to make the trip as an assistant.

"Thank you so much, Claire. I'm more worried about Mr. Klippenstein," the Senator's aide said, genuinely concerned that the man would suffer a heat-stroke, or at the very least be sun-burned. She took a seat behind a small desk where the girl had placed the platter. "Take care of him. The calls I have to make-"

"I understand," the young intern interrupted. "Security clearances, National Security and all that." She turned to go, not the least bit put off by the older woman's desire for privacy.

"Claire, thank you again," she said as she filled the glass.

"You're welcome, Ms. Foster," the intern replied as she stepped out, sealing the compartment door behind her.

The woman, one Victoria Foster, eased back in her seat as she brought the glass to her lips, savoring the cool water as she drank. When her glass was empty she retrieved a cellular telephone from the inner pocket of the plain black suit coat that she was required to wear to the meeting. She had no concerns about using the device as it had been carefully altered to transmit an encrypted signal that could be decoded only by another similarly altered phone - one owned by the first person she would be informing of the day's events, and _not _Senator Bond or the President's Chief of Staff.

She selected the name "Galen" from the contact list and made the call, refilling the glass with water as she waited for the other party to answer.

His greeting was a warm and enthusiastic, "Hello, dear!"

Hers was delayed, and somber.

"It's starting."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

Special thanks to TaleWeaver, beta-reader extraordinaire, for her excellent proofreading and general helpfulness. A beta-reader who can really get into your "mind-space" is an extremely helpful thing to have, especially when you're in a position where something you see in your head isn't so easily captured on paper. Bryan0711's efforts were also invaluable to writing this chapter. On that note, WTF Hulu? I know you want to keep all the _Welcome Back, Kotter _fans out there happy by hosting full episodes of that show, but there is more than enough space for that _and _TSCC!

Also, special thanks to JMHthe3rd who pointed out an error I made in the last chapter. In the Author's Notes I incorrectly attributed Harlan Ellison's issue with James Cameron to elements of _I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream _when it was actually two episodes of _The Outer Limits _written by Ellison - "Soldier," and "The Demon With The Glass Hand" - that the eccentric author felt Cameron's original _Terminator _drew on without crediting him.

Apologies, again, for taking so long with this update. The Month of September was another one where RL kept me away from writing, and my own dissatisfaction with the dialogue kept this in beta longer than I would have liked. BUT, I'm back into writing in a big way and am well into the next two chapters, so this month should be a lively one. For those of you who are concerned that we're not seeing enough of our protagonists, the Connors and Leoben, it's pretty much their show from Chapter 13 onward.

During the first scene, there is a reference to the movie _Real Genius_, which was an 80s comedy that starred Val Kilmer in one of his early roles. You can see a clip of the opening sequence at the link that follows this paragraph (remember to remove the spaces). Jump to 1:37 to skip over the credits. I imagine the conference room at Tonopah where the first scene takes place looking something like this - only larger! http://www. youtube. com/watch?v=acgYqbv_R1s

The choice of "Tyler" as General Ashdown's first name, as well as the last name of his aide Major Farber, whose scene was cut from this chapter but will be added to a later one, are references to Michael Ironside's roll as "Ham Tyler" in _V, V: The Final Battle _and _V: The Series_.

During his introspection after Castor's exchange with Cain, Hudson notes to himself that because she's not wearing makeup, "No one would be dubbing her 'Revlon' anytime soon." This is a reference to a reference; Kara Thrace's first name was a reference to the first female Naval Aviator to qualify as a combat pilot - Lieutenant Kara Hultgreen, call-sign, "Revlon," who tragically died in an accident in 1994 owing to a design flaw in the F-14 Tomcat.

The song "King of Babylon" is a little tune by an artist you've never heard of named David Johansen. You _may _know him as his SNL alter-ego Buster Poindexter, known for _Hot Hot Hot _and his bit part in _Scrooged._ I am working on setting up an Imeem profile with the _So Let Us Not Talk Falsely Now _Soundtrack where you'll be able to listen to all the songs referenced in the story, but since its one of the few songs I can't find on Imeem, I'll be glad to pass it along to anyone who wants to hear it. Just PM me and we'll work out the details.

A little background on Cyber Research Systems, in this universe: The US Air Force is organized in a hierarchical structure with "headquarters" sitting at the top of the pyramid, divisions known as "Major Commands" (MAJCOMs) beneath them and the number "Air Forces" beneath them. Skynet was originally built for the Strategic Air Command, a MAJCOM that ceased to exist after the 1992 Air Force reorganization. That reorganization saw the SAC's various sub-divisions transferred to other MAJCOMs, one of them being the proposed Air Force Cyber Command which was never activated. The SAC sub-divisions that were to become part of the AFCC, including its NORAD support group actually became a part of the Air Force Space Command. What's interesting is that there are many different sub-divisions within the various MAJCOMs. If you read the AFSPC's Wikipedia article, you'll find that in addition to numbered Air Forces, the MAJCOMs are also made up of what is called "Direct Reporting Units," for example the "Space Innovation and Development Center" (AFSPC). According to the T3 novelization, it seems that Cyber Research Systems was actually organized as a special DRU wearing the mask of a privately held company. This didn't come across well in T3 the movie, but I ran with the idea for my own purposes since the actual organization of the Air Force would make it possible for such an entity to exist but also to remain hidden. Because of the SAC-NORAD links and the nature of Skynet as I envision it, the AFSPC-SIDC with its "major role in fully integrating space systems into the operational Air Force," seemed like the ideal place for CRS. And 'the 595th' is a reference to an actual numbered division that is the primary component of the Space Innovation and Development Center - the 595th Space Group. Their job, were Skynet to actually exist, would be to oversee the integration of American ICBMs into it.

Anyone catch the _RoboCop_ reference? How about the _Patton _reference?


	12. Chapter 11

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**JOHN F. KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TERMINAL EIGHT, CONCOURSE B - LOWER LEVEL, GATE THIRTEEN  
NEW YORK CITY  
03.21.2009 | 11:40 | AM | EST**

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There were people everywhere - coming, going, waiting and working. Some walked, some let themselves be carried by the moving walkway that ran down the center of the concourse, seemingly endless in each direction. They were talking on cell phones, listening to portable music players, talking to whomever happened to be with them, browsing the various shops that lined the promenade or ordering overpriced lattes from Starbuck's.

Each person seemed to be lost in their own little world, completely oblivious to the fact that they were surrounded by a sea of activity; two individuals, a man and a woman, stood out like an island in the middle of that sea.

The man, a stock broker by trade, couldn't help but feel like he was in a television commercial where two people walked along in real time while everything around them seemed to move at superhuman speeds. He hated this airport, new terminals and all. He'd been flying in and out of it since he was in his twenties and he'd always felt out of his element. Airports, this one especially, were microcosms of everything he hated about the world. It was large and indifferent. Even the old terminal eight, which had a sort of charm about it, reminded him of a holding pen for humans, just a temporary shelter while they waited to board their flying cattle-cars.

It wasn't like this in the trading pits. Down there, everyone was watching everyone else, always looking for signs of weakness or confidence. Maybe that was why he loved his job so much. Traders were real, at least on the floor of the stock exchange. One knew where they stood and everyone knew what was going on around them, be it dealing with clients, other traders or just simply looking up at the big board to see what was moving and in what direction.

It was sad commentary on the human race - people beyond the doors of the exchange couldn't be bothered to stop and see life moving around them unless their money was involved. They were too busy letting life herd them along to their next destination.

He envied the ignorant masses.

He looked aside to his wife who was likewise noticing the lack of people noticing what was right in front of them.

"Have I told you that I think this is a bad idea?" he asked.

"You have," the attractive, curly blonde-haired woman who looked a good ten years younger than she actually was, replied.."At length. _Several_ times."

The gruff, balding man shook his head in irritation. "Well I'm telling you again, it's a _bad _idea! What if she figures out what you've done to her? Worse yet, what if you get caught? I can see the headlines now: 'Former Nobel Prize Winner arrested for assault on B-list actress.' You'll be lucky if they don't bring you up on terrorism charges for sneaking that... _thing_ onto the plane!"

The 'thing' in question was a small, cylindrical item that anyone inquiring would mistake for a container of liquid eyeliner with an attached applicator.

She'd designed it that way.

In truth, it _did _contain eyeliner – and quite a bit more.

She rolled the device between her fingers several times before slipping it into the tiny purse from which she'd taken it only moments ago for the purpose of taunting her husband. He was too paranoid over the device. No one would ever know what it was, or what she planned to do with it when the time came.

'Unless I get caught,' she mused.

Shaking off the thought, the woman leaned in close, resting her forearms on the man's shoulders. She spoke in the soft, sultry voice she knew he loved, "D-list actress, dear; _if_. And if that were to happen, which it won't, then I'm lucky that I have such a wonderful, well-to-do investment guru for a husband who wouldn't hesitate to drop everything and take a trip across the country to bail me out."

To further emphasize her point she leaned in even closer, causing him to wonder just how close the two of them could actually get, and kissed him lightly on the earlobe.

Then, as a finishing touch, she blew across the gentle member.

He closed his eyes as he felt the goosebumps erupt all over his body. She knew how to drive him wild. The feeling only took scant seconds to run it course, but it felt like an eternity to the rough-faced financier; he was glad that everyone around them was oblivious to the site. When the moment passed he turned to her and repeated his earlier irritated head-shake.

Of course he was smiling the second time. "I'd _have _to. I don't want to imagine what sort of trouble you'd cause in prison."

"I would have them eating out of my hands in no time," she said as she playfully tapped his nose with her pointer finger. "Just like you!"

"Pfffft," he replied. "The men, or the _women_?"

She only smiled in response. Despite the displays of playfulness that were a hallmark of their marriage, the potential for the situation to go wrong was troubling him far more than anything else in their complicated lives. And they _were _complicated. She wasn't surprised when he again shook his head and turned away. This time he reached into his pocket and retrieved a smart-phone.

'Go ahead, check the ticker,' she mused. Some people bit their fingernails, others paced back and forth; her man checked the stock ticker. 'What did we do before Internet-enabled cell phones?'

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't immediately notice the approach of a dark-haired, heavy-set man with a cardboard carrier holding three styrofoam cups. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a dark blazer with suede elbow patches over an only slightly lighter turtle-neck sweater. He was the picture of academia.

Immediately the new arrival noticed the disquiet hanging over the couple like a storm cloud. "Coffee," he offered, extending the carrier toward them.

The gruff financier snatched up the beverage as quickly as it was offered. "Good man," he grumbled, not taking the time to make eye contact with the heavier man. Having slipped his phone back into his pocket he drew away from the newcomer and his wife, attempting to nonchalantly pull another item from the inner pocket of his suit coat.

The action would only seem discreet to an unsuspecting onlooker. Both the heavy-set man and the petite, blonde-haired woman knew exactly what her husband was up to.

"Who says there aren't any liquor stores on Wall Street," the dark-haired man whispered to the woman. "Isn't it a little early?"

The woman's only response was to narrow her eyes at the taller man, who immediately put up his hands and literally backed off. After an uneasy moment, the woman's features softened and she took her own coffee from the container.

"Tory called me," the dark-haired man stated in a foreboding manner.

"Really," the woman replied, pretending not to be interested.

"Really. She says, 'It's starting.'"

"Is it," she stated more than asked.

"You need to take this seriously, Ellen. She thinks that before the day is out the decision will be made to take things to the next level. Once that happens..."

"It won't be long," she finished. "I know."

"You don't seem too concerned," the academic stated.

"What can I do about it?"

"Ellen, we need to finish the ship before _it _happens - that's what they told us. If we don't finish the job, we're stuck here fighting a hopeless fight with extinction."

"Why are you telling me things I already know, Galen?"

"Because rather than focusing on the task at hand you're... " he glanced toward a young woman sitting in the corner of Gate Thirteen's seating area, looking bored, "..._not _focusing on the task at hand! I've supported you in... _this_," he seemed to indicate the entire terminal with his gesture, "but you need to consider that this may not be the best time!"

"This is for Sam," she said, softly. "You of all people should be able to appreciate that."

The man frowned. "I feel for Sam, I really do, but... I know it goes against your nature, but maybe some things _do_ happen for a reason," the heavy-set man stated, his words sounding more like a plea.

"You think it goes against my nature, Galen? Since when did you start sounding so much like my father?"

The dark-haired academic, 'Galen,' ignored the intended insult, but noted that as she said it her attention hadn't been fixed on him but the same girl he'd indicated just seconds earlier. She was doing her best to seem inconspicuous, with her dark hair tied back in a ponytail and her head covered with a Pittsburgh Steelers hat. She was also wearing dark sunglasses that were much too big for her petite face.

Despite the disguise, she was unmistakable to the academic. They'd never met, but his oldest friend had told him so much about the girl that he felt like he knew her almost as well as he knew her one-time fiancée. That same old friend had also forced him to watch every episode of _Firefly_, as well as dragged him to multiple showings of _Serenity –_ which wasn't easy for a former Super Bowl MVP to do without getting mobbed.

A feeling of deja-vu came over the heavy-set man. The plain clothes, sunglasses, even a very similar, possibly the same, Steelers' cap; it was how Sam had kept from being noticed at all those theaters.

He could almost picture it in his mind. Then before long he _was _picturing it, as though it was happening all over again.

Only the sound of his friend's voice snapped him out of the amazing sensation that was projection.

"And here I thought you hated projecting," she said with a twinge of humor.

"I hate not being able to control it. It just happens, any time I dwell on something. I start visualizing it and before I know it it's right there in front of me and I end up tripping over a step or running into someone."

"Maybe you should try it sitting down," she replied.

"Or maybe I should try it drunk," he said, sparing a look at the older man who was once again oblivious to anything but what was displayed on his BlackBerry.

Ignoring the jab he was taking at her husband she re-focused the conversation on his earlier point; "I am very well aware that things happen for a reason, which is why I'm part of this... _this!_" She mirrored his earlier gesture. "I don't like feeling like I'm not in control, but for reasons that should be obvious to you I feel compelled to do what I'm about to do. I know it might amount to nothing, but if there's even a chance..."

"If it might amount to nothing, then why _take _the chance?"

"Because Sam deserved better," she said, a tear forming in her eye. "He had more to lose than any of us. He _did _lose more than any of us! She..." The woman fixed her gaze on the young girl. "...should have listened to him."

"Would you have listened?"

She sighed, knowing that he was going to say that. They'd had this argument more than once. What bothered her most was that she knew he had a point.

"Come on, Ellen," he continued, "look at it rationally! Hell, look at it emotionally! Whatever way you slice it, the whole thing took a lot of getting used to, even for _us_! Aren't you expecting too much of the girl? She's only... Well, I don't know how old she is, but she's young! Good God, she's just a kid compared to us! Even Sam..."

It was easy for the woman to forget that Sam was so much younger than the rest of them. Even the academic, who was technically only a few short years older, had a much older soul.

_'Soul. _Does that word even mean anything anymore?' "My mind is made up, Galen," she said firmly, the tear wiped away and her tone becoming all business. "This has to be done."

"And if something happens... If _it _happens... Remember Tory's vision;.everything that she saw months ago happened this very morning! She's convinced that the Chief of Staff is going to recommend pushing an emergency funding bill to finish the project. It could happen sooner than we thought!"

"_It,_" she repeated, more condescendingly than she intended to. Her husband referred to it as '_it_' the same way, and she was getting tired of... _it_. "If _it_ happens, _it_ happens. I'll only die," she said flatly. She'd meant it humorously, but it hadn't come out that way.

Of course 'Galen' smiled anyway.

"Dr. Kogen's plane will be landing soon," she said, steering the conversation in a new direction. "You'd best be on your way."

"Have I mentioned that I'm not eager on that front, either?"

The woman sighed. "Galen..."

"We're talking about sharing a huge part of what we've... developed... with her. I'm not comfortable with that."

"She lived up to her end, and we're going to live up to ours. Besides, the formula... It's incomplete. You're only helping her along – she'll still have to make the final breakthrough on her own."

The academic nodded, unwilling to further try to argue his position with the blonde woman.

Realizing she'd been harsher with the man than she'd wanted to be, she closed the distance between them and took his hands in hers. "I really believe that what we're doing is for the best. _All _of it."

His face softened into a grin. "I've always believed in you, Ellen."

"I've always believed in _you_, Galen. This will turn out right. If there's anything that's clear to me its that one way or another this will all turn out right, and nothing those fools in Washington or out in the desert do is going to change that. You were right, it _is _out-of-character for me to say something like that. It's even more out-of-character for me to think something like that, but after everything we've seen, everything we've done... "

From aside, the woman's husband could be heard scoffing. She shot an icy glare at him.

"You know what, I'm just going to leave you two to this and go meet our guest," the larger man said, abruptly, not allowing his friend to finish the comment her husband had so rudely interrupted. He pulled the blonde woman into an embrace. "Be safe," he whispered in her ear, realizing only after the words had left his mouth just how ridiculous he sounded given the unique abilities the three friends now possessed.

"You don't have to worry. Tell Tory I'll see her soon. And tell my.." she stopped mid-sentence as a sullen look came across her features and her gaze fell to the floor.

"I'll tell him," the heavy-set man replied, knowingly, but not elaborating.

"Thank you," she said, doing her best to once again fight back a tear.

He smiled and turned his attention to the gruff older man. "Go easy on that, will ya?" he said, indicating the cup.

"Or we could liven yours up," he came back with, again reaching for his flask.

"Check back with me after twelve P.M."

"Come on, be a man. It'll put hair on your chest."

"How about your head?"

"Listen to this guy," the stock broker smirked to his wife. "Everybody's a comedian!"

"You have your ways of getting through the day, I have mine," the academic shot back in good humor. Holding out his hand for a shake, which the older man offered up, he added, "I'll see you soon." Then he turned toward the concourse and walked away, singing, purportedly to himself but loud enough for each of his friends to hear:

_- Did I meet you, baby, on a Transatlantic Flight? JFK to Heathrow in the middle of the night... -_

The husband and wife duo looked at each other, both wearing looks of amusement. Somehow their younger friend always managed to get the last word in, even if he had to use a song.

_"Attention, American Airlines Flight 21 to Los Angeles is now boarding at gate 13," _came a voice over a public address speaker. _"American Airlines Flight 21 to Los Angeles boarding at gate 13."_

"I guess that's your cue," the man said to his wife.

"I guess so."

He took a drink from his cup, wincing slightly from the alcohol content. He appeared to want to say something, but was fighting the urge.

"Say it," she said, exasperated.

"It wont make a difference," was his gruff reply.

"It'll make you feel better. Say it," she said again, this time with more force.

"Isn't there a line in that song that goes something like, '_Buckle your seat tight, there's nasty weather; we're in for a bumpy flight_?'"

"Saul..."

"'_There's no survivors, no signs of life are found...'"_

"You're not talking me out of this," she said firmly, but without raising her voice.

"Oh I'm sure of that much, if there's anything I can be sure of these days. You can't fault me for worrying," the gruff man replied.

"No, I suppose not. But I can fault you for not having faith in me."

"Faith... Does _that _word mean anything any more?"

She gasped, wondering how he could have known what she'd been thinking only moments earlier. She looked down, only now realizing that they'd joined hands.

"Forget about something?" the man quipped.

"How do you do that?" she questioned. She didn't fully understand the touch-telepathy that was a byproduct of their new state of being, but she knew it wasn't supposed to be as simple as touching someone and instantly knowing their thoughts. "You're not supposed to be able to know things I don't intend to share."

"I guess I'm a little more skilled at this 'psychic connection' mumbo-jumbo you built into us than _you_ are," he replied, acting as indifferent toward the whole experience as he'd been since minute one.

'Yes, _acting_. He's thrilled by it, even more than I am.' She'd let him play it cool without question; truth be told it was something of a turn-on to think that she couldn't keep anything from him. "You need to stop being so good at it. I have plenty of secrets that aren't meant for your prying eyes!"

"'Prying mind' is more like it," he quipped, grinning like an idiot.

"Now who's the comedian?"

"Ellen, I was able to read you like a book long before you shot me up with those nana-doohickies."

'You don't know how true that is,' she thought. "Nanites, Saul. They're called _nanites_."

"I call them a perfect blend of science and witchcraft," he said dismissively.

"They gave you a brand new body, complete with a brand new liver to destroy. And there's an endless supply where that one came from," she shot back.

"You know Ellen, you've got a knack for finding the silver lining in everything. It's one of the things I love most about you."

She smiled, appreciatively. "Is that _all _you love about me?"

The man looked his wife over, lecherously, as though he was judging a head of livestock. "Oh, I think there are a few other things now that you mention it. You've got brains, that's for sure. Not any fool off the street can win a Nobel Prize."

"I've heard the President is in the running for one," she quipped, sardonically. "But you aren't sizing up my brains just now, are you _Mister _Tigh?"

"All right, you've got a fantastic little ass on you too," he replied, squeezing it firmly as he said it.

As hard as she tried, she couldn't keep from shuddering, just slightly, from the feeling of his hand grasping at her backside. "We're not a couple of teenagers you know. People are staring."

Not that she cared.

"Bah," he shot back at his wife, not bothering to be subtle as he appraised the smooth, slender legs displayed beneath a hemline that cut a perfect border between modest and immodest. "These people are too self-absorbed to even notice. We could probably make love on one of these little airport chairs without being noticed."

"Want to try?" she said with a wink.

"_Attention, American Airlines Flight 21 to Los Angeles is now boarding at gate 13..." _came the overhead voice again.

"Awwww, I guess we'll have to wait 'til you come back," he said, smiling.

The older, balding man had a real talent for working her up. It was one of the things that kept her so attracted to him after all these years. 'Why does he get such perverse pleasure out of leaving me wanting?' "You are a bastard sending me away like this, you know that?"

"You knew I was a bastard when you married me, _Mrs. _Tigh. Have I ever told you how glad I am that I asked you to do that?"

"No, as a matter of fact you haven't."

'Not once in your life.'

"Oh. Well then, I guess I'll save it for a special occasion," he shot back, his face cast in seriousness.

She knew better. "You, sir, are terrible," she said as she pulled the man into a tight embrace."

"What are you going to do, spank me for it?"

"I just may," she replied as their lips came together in a passionate kiss that bordered on inappropriate for a public setting.

"You watch that pretty little ass up there," he said when they finally separated.

"And you watch yours down here," she replied as she patted his, returning the favor for earlier.. "Try to stay out of trouble."

"Stay out of trouble, eh? Dealing with day traders, uneducated speculators, SEC Investigators, three-hundred killer robots building my chariot to the stars, being named in a conspiracy to violate international ethical standards regarding genetic engineering... Oh, and there's that little matter of the _other _man in your life. What could possibly get me in any trouble?"

"You've got to be the world's biggest complainer, you know that? You live a more interesting life than anyone one the planet. You're making history. Literally."

She'd said it teasingly; he'd not taken it that way, his mood suddenly turning somber.

"History," he replied in a whisper. "Too bad there won't be anyone left to talk about it," he said solemnly.

"_We_ will remember, Saul."

The older man shook his head. "Get on that plane," he said, forcefully, not wanting to dwell on the subject any longer.

'Yes, Saul Tigh, you are a bastard,' she thought, the earlier levity of the moment all but forgotten. 'Sometimes I just don't know what to say to you.'

The relatively few people boarding this particular plane were already passing through the gate, including the young girl who she'd be spending the flight with, leaving her as the last in line. She shook her head, dismissively, as she turned away from her husband.

At the last second before passing the threshold of the gate she stopped and looked back. He was following her with his eyes, but they retained the gloom that had hung over the majority of their parting conversation. She gave him a nonchalant wave goodbye, but didn't bother to say what she was thinking.

'Yes, you're a bastard. But I love you.' She knew the feeling was mutual, but just once she'd like to hear him say it.

As she turned back to the tunnel that would take her to the plane she didn't notice the hard-nosed investor whisper, in hushed tones, another lyric – one just as foreboding as the others:

_"'You know I loved you, baby, though I never got to show you...'"_

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**TERMINAL EIGHT, UPPER LEVEL RECEPTION PLATFORM  
03.21.2009 | 11:49 | AM | EST**

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"Doctor Tyrell?"

The voice came from a petite, dark haired woman with a look that could best be described as... eccentric. Forty-ish, definitely easy on the eyes, but a woman who projected oddity in every direction. Were _Corpse Bride _to have been a live-action film, Doctor Serena Kogen would have played the title role.

"It's Tyrol, actually," the husky academic replied as the dark-haired woman pulling a suitcase with wheels stopped in front of him.

"Ah, 'tie-rall,' Doctor Tyrol," she corrected, holding her hand out, bidding him shake it.

"Um, I actually go by 'Professor," he replied, impressed by the firmness of her grip. "'Doctor Tyrol' is too... Well, no offense, but it's just not me."

"No offense taken. 'Professor' is an honorable title - perhaps more so than 'Doctor.' It takes something special to be able to teach, something I... wish I had," the lady replied, regretfully, "Doctor Serena Kogen."

"I'm pleased to finally meet you. You wanted to teach?"

"I did. It was something I always planned to do, but early on I realized that I didn't have the patience for it."

Tyrol laughed. "It does take a good bit of that. Sometimes I wonder where I get it from." Turning toward the mass of departing passengers swirling around them, he asked, "Shall we?"

The petite woman smiled and took her place along side him.

"So, Professor, have the prototypes performed to your satisfaction?"

"They've surpassed all expectations," Tyrol replied, truthfully. The 'prototype' drones she'd supplied them with _had _performed better than any of them expected. Replicating them, turning the three she'd provided them with into over three hundred, had been the difficult part, though this wasn't something the Professor was going to share with the good Doctor. "They're not too great at ping-pong though," he joked.

She laughed. "Well, they haven't met their cousin TOPIO yet."

He was surprised she got the reference.

"Aside from that small issue, have you had any problems?

"Absolutely not."

"Then I believe I've lived up to my part of the agreement," she said, her demeanor instantly switching from pleasant to confrontational. She stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks, and looked him directly in the eye. "I expect you to live up to yours."

It was an impressive display from the woman who was half his size. "I assure you, Doctor Kogen, that our group never entertained the thought of not living up to our end." He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small, plastic container holding a black flash card. Holding it out in the direction of the Doctor, he continued, "I'm sure you'll be as... satisfied... as we are."

The Doctor's reaction was exactly what Tyrol expected. She'd obviously not thought that he'd hand it over right there on the spot. She seemed to move in slow motion as she reached out to take the offering, looking at it in awe as though it was...

'Well, in a way it _is _the key to life,' he thought, grinning.

Her response was barely a whisper, but even surrounded by the mayhem of the busy airport it was the only thing the Professor could hear. "It's so... _prosaic_," she said as she gently took hold of the device. "Pandora's Box could have been so non-descript, sitting on a shelf in the Metropolitan Library, never being noticed. This could be set aside on a desk, buried under papers and forgotten, lost to the world."

"I have a feeling you're not going to be so careless with it," he joked.

The humor was lost on her. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Professor," she replied, still speaking with reverence for the flash card. "You have no idea what this means to me."

He smirked, though she didn't notice as her gaze remained fixed on the device. Contrary to her assertion he _did _know what it meant to her, beyond the obvious. "If you succeed you could revolutionize medical science. I'm very well aware of what that means."

The comment caught struck a chord. She snapped her attention back toward him. "Is that what you think my purpose is?"

"Isn't it?" He knew that it wasn't, but he wasn't going to let on.

"Oh, professor... I don't know what you were expecting, but for me this is about far more than the prestige that goes along with changing the world. Miles Dyson wanted to change the world. That didn't work out so well for him, did it? My motivations are much more... personal." She turned away and resumed walking.

'Indeed,' he thought, moving to catch up. 'She's not about to tell a total stranger that she believes that she can use nano-technology to create viable human clones, or that she can transfer a living brain from one body to another.' Cloning? Consciousness transfer? Such ideas were still taboo, even among the world's most prominent geneticists; that was the reason Ellen Tigh had been run out of the club while Serena Kogen labored on the periphery of it.

"I apologize, Doctor. I didn't mean to suggest prominence was your primary motivator," he said, genuinely.

"Perhaps not, but you can see how one would come to that conclusion," she replied, sparing a brief glance at him as they walked. A moment later she added, "I'm what death tastes like."

"Excuse me?" he asked, once again coming to an abrupt stop. He was well aware of the fact that she was a sick woman, not long for this world, but the comment was unexpected none the less.

"Terminal pancreatic cancer, almost impossible to detect until it's spread beyond the point where it can be successfully treated," she replied, stopping several feet beyond him, not bothering to look back. "Someone told me once that kissing me was like tasting death."

All of a sudden the _Corpse Bride _comment didn't seem so funny to the heavy set man. The macabre comment, combined with the earlier cryptic remarks about Pandora's Box made him wonder what sort of person he and his friends had involved themselves with.

A silent moment passed between them before she continued, "You know the implications of your research, and you know that I've done more with it than anyone in the field. You're an intelligent man, Professor Tyrol - I expect you can do the math."

"Doctor... the technology isn't a cure," he said, disingenuously. He didn't want to think that she would be able to achieve through pure science what he and Ellen could only achieve with intervention from... whatever... _whoever_ the source of the 'inspiration' actually was.

"I have high hopes, Professor. I'd hate to think that you were trying to dissuade me from achieving my goal."

"Not at all. My father died from cancer, and if our research, or yours, could have cured him he _wouldn't _have died," he replied. "I would like nothing more than to see this technology cure cancer. I'm simply giving you full disclosure. Doctor Tigh's invention is promising, but there are no guarantees," he lied. While the data he'd provided the good Doctor with was incomplete, he, as well as the others, were living proof that their 'discovery' _was _a success. There was also a distinct possibility that Serena Kogen would be able to fill in the proverbial blanks.

"I appreciate your candor. Rest assured, Doctor Tigh has already told me what you're telling me now," Doctor Kogen said. "I'm confident that I can finish what she started, and I'm honored that she's given me the opportunity. There are few in our field who would hand off their research to a colleague and allow them to take credit for its eventual success, especially a colleague who doesn't exactly have the most... reputable name in the scientific community."

Tyrol sympathized, finding himself impressed yet again by the Doctor's capacity for self-depreciation. Like Ellen, Serena Kogen's success in the science of genetic engineering had been mired in controversy. Scrutinized very closely by government agencies, religious zealots and average people acting on misinformation, people in this particular field of science winked and nodded at the concerns of moralists who thought of human cloning and genetic manipulation as 'unnatural' while at the same time disregarding laws in every nation that hindered their research. It was a difficult thing to make progress in the discipline without sacrificing one's ethics. Ellen Tigh had done it, and been ostracized for it. Serena Kogen had done it and while she hadn't been run out of the profession more than one less scrupulous rival had damaged her reputation in the community with negative peer reviews. They were the sort in whose hands the technology that he'd just handed over could do no end of damage; in a sense it made the visions he'd seen of the future somewhat more palatable - it wouldn't be their kind that would destroy the world, but those in the field of robotics – people like the aforementioned Miles Dyson, the military leaders and the politicians.

He couldn't help but spare a thought for Tory in that moment. He wondered what it must be like to watch events she'd already seen in her mind unfold before her eyes.

He missed his lover.

There was a time when Galen Tyrol, as well as Tory Foster, Sam Anders, Saul and Ellen Tigh would have cared more – a time before the visions of the future. Since they started it seemed that, with the exception of Saul, they'd all but given up on this world, and in Sam's case reality. But the heavy-set academic knew that it was a temporary state of affairs; somewhere 'out there' existed twelve _other _worlds where humans thrived . Where Earth seemed to be doomed _they _were yet salvageable. It humbled him, making him wonder what was so special about him – indeed, about _any _of them – that earned him special knowledge of the future, let alone an avenue of escape. He caught himself, directing his attention back into the here and now as he realized that the floor was moving beneath him; he and the Doctor had boarded the moving walkway.

"Are you alright, Professor? You seemed like you were somewhere else for just a moment," she stated.

'Damn,' he mentally cursed as he steadied himself against the rubber handrail and focused once again on his companion. This happened every time he let his mind wander. Usually that led to an ill-timed instance of projection and this wasn't the first time someone caught him. "I'm sorry, Doctor. Your comment about your reputation... That subject hits close to home, and not just where Doctor Tigh is concerned. It brought back some... unpleasant memories."

It wasn't exactly the truth nor was it completely a lie, but it seemed to be enough to get the tiny woman to excuse his mental mis-step.

"You're right though, Doctor Tigh... _Ellen _is a remarkable individual, and she _does _think very highly of you," he replied, honestly. "I'm sure you recognize the possibilities for abuse where this technology is concerned. She sees you as something of a kindred spirit; some of the same people who conspired to drive her out of the scientific community so many years ago have rallied against you. Despite that, you've made several breakthroughs and you deserve a lot of credit for that. You persevered where Ellen couldn't."

"I'm flattered that you think so highly of me," she replied, honestly, "but I think you're giving me more credit than I deserve. My success came at a high price, and only because a company with a reputation as sullied as my own was willing to gamble on me. The negative statements of our peers are hard enough for prospective employers to disregard; seeing the name... 'Cyberdyne,' on my resume is... harder still."

He nodded his head in understanding, all too aware of the implications of being associated with the disgraced technology concern. He felt obligated to respond, but he noticed a far-away look in the woman's eyes that spoke to the fact that no acknowledgment of her hard-earned success or her undeniable genius would distract from the pain of drudging up the long festering wounds that had been inflicted on her.

With no conversation, it was as though an invisible bubble that had surrounded them since she walked out of the gate had burst. All at once the sounds of the Airport which had gone unnoticed from the moment they'd made contact, the motion of motorized baggage carriers, the whirring of the walkway motors, the chatter of hundreds of different people engaged in countless conversations, the announcements of flights coming and going and the periodic roar of a departing plane overloaded Tyrol's senses. He allowed the rest of their ride along the walkway to pass in silence, along with their walk to the AirTrain, and their ride to the Howard Beach station where a limousine waited to pick them up.

It wasn't until they turned on to the Van Wyck Expressway that the two of them would speak again.

"I've just realized that during our conversation in the airport we only talked about me," the Doctor said. "Now that I've told you all my dark secrets, why don't you tell me what you've been doing with the T-70 prototypes that I had the good sense to keep hidden from the United States Air Force?"

* * *

**FIRST CLASS SEATING AREA - AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 21  
03.21.2009 | 11:54 | AM | EST**

* * *

She was sitting in the window seat.

She was still wearing the sunglasses and hat; she'd even pulled up the hood of the hooded sweatshirt she was wearing. Who did she need to hide from on the plane?

'Why is she sitting in the window seat? I've got the ticket for the window seat.'

The girl didn't spare a glance at her as she took the seat next to her, not bothering to make an issue of the seating arrangements. The older woman reasoned that having her farther away from the aisle might be a good thing. She'd planned carefully when making her travel plans. First class passengers were few on this particular flight; there was no one seated directly across from them nor was there anyone on either side of the aisle in the row in front of them. Directly behind them was the wall that separated first class from coach. This was as much privacy as was possible in this environment.

It was more than enough for her purpose.

"Hello," the older woman finally said, deciding that she wasn't going to wait for her fellow traveler to acknowledge her.

"Oh, hello," she replied. "I didn't notice you sit down."

The older woman believed it. Even with the glasses and the brim of the hat covering a good bit of her face she could tell that the girl had been deep in thought. Her distraction would come in handy. "This isn't your first time flying, is it? You seem a little nervous."

"I... Well, actually I... No, I flown before. Often, actually. I just... I'm not... I wasn't being rude. I have... a lot on my mind."

'Oh no, not nervous at all.' "I understand. Cross-country flights can be stressful. The longer we're up here the greater the chance that something could go wrong. They say that statistically you're more likely to be in a car wreck than a plane crash but... When I'm driving a car I'm the one in control; it's not the same on a plane. It's hard not to be stressed."

"I never thought about it that way, the being in control thing," the young girl replied. "That's not what's bugging me though."

"Oh. _Boy trouble?_" she said, suggestively.

She expected that the younger woman would either be offended or humored by the suggestion. She didn't expect her to be indifferent.

"It's... Sort of like that, but more complicated."

Despite her seeming indifference there was a hint of sadness in the girl's voice, and the older woman suspected that she was desperate to talk about whatever it was that was bothering her.

For a moment she wondered if it was possible that the girl was thinking about Sam. One moment became several, and before she realized it the girl was looking at her questioningly.

"So, when are you going to ask me for an autograph?"

"What?"

"Aren't you going to ask me for my autograph?"

"I'm sorry, 'autograph?'"

The girl frowned, then a look of embarrassment came over her. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. Are you a celebrity? I'm afraid I'm not exactly current with popular culture," the older woman said, hoping the girl couldn't tell she was lying.

"I... You mean, you don't... Oh! Wow... This doesn't usually happen to me. I've worn wigs, ratty clothes, anything I can think of to avoid Sci-Fi geeks. I was on a TV show that only lasted a few episodes, but it has a huge following. They even made a movie out of it. I know people say I'm a less than C-list actress, but I still tend to get hounded. So I'm used to thinking that people are just kissing butt by making conversation before asking me for an autograph, but obviously you're not going to ask me for one and now I feel like a total dork and I'm-"

"Honey, slow down," the older woman interrupted. "It's okay! We've not got that much company up here in first class, so there's no need to be embarrassed."

"You're probably right. It's funny, most of the time I'm going out of my way not to get noticed and the one time I get lucky enough to sit by someone on a plane who _doesn't _know me I end up making a fool of myself!"

"How about we just forget the last two minutes ever happened?"

"That sounds good. Hi, I'm Allison!"

"It's nice to meet you, Allison...?"

"Young. Allison Young. And you are?"

"Ellen," she replied, offering her hand to the younger woman. "Ellen Cavil."

Allison smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Ellen. I guess... Well, it's going to be a long flight and I just turned twenty-one. How about I treat us to some champagne?"

"I appreciate the thought, dear, but in first class drinks are free."

"Oh," Allison said, looking somewhat dejected.

"I would be glad to share a belated birthday drink with you, though. Like I said, it's the thought that counts. You don't fly first class much?"

"Not as much as I'd like and, you know, just became legal... I guess the parts I've played so far haven't been high-profile enough to warrant permanent first class seating."

'There's self-depreciating and then there's a complete lack of self-confidence,' Ellen thought. "You're a lovely girl. And you're young. I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities in the future. The absolute worst thing you can do is be too hard on yourself, trust me." Before she could stop herself she added, "It took me a long time to get established in my profession."

"Really? What do you do?" Allison asked.

"Psychiatry," she lied, regretting it instantly. 'Of all the things.' She could hear Saul's words from earlier echoing in her mind:

_"Have I told you that I think this is a bad idea?"_

Next to her, Allison looked away, out the window, and sighed. "This is too weird."

"I'm sorry?"

"You... Psychiatrist... And me, here, meeting you on this flight," she replied, not making any sense.

"Um, well... Weird? Why is it weird?" She was temped to say that she wasn't really a psychiatrist. Of course it would make sense to the girl. From the moment she first said 'Hello' she'd been trying to get her to talk. She'd known that the girl looked like she needed to talk. 'I could have told her I was a lawyer, a lobbyist or a massage therapist, but what do I do? Good job, Tigh, good job. You've really stepped in it now.'

"When I told you I have a lot on my mind... I have a close friend whose been telling me that need to talk to one for... Wow, I don't know exactly how long, but it's been a while. I've been wanting to make an appointment with one. I'd go for the phone but I'd hesitate. Then someone would call, or I'd get a text message, or I'd remember something that I needed to do. I'd always find an excuse not to make the call. Now I'm sitting next to one on a plane and... I'm rambling again, aren't I?"

'Oh dear,' Ellen lamented silently.

_"Well I'm telling you again, it's a _bad _idea!"_

'Saul you bastard... Why do you have to be right _all _the time?'

It was going to be a long flight.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

Special thanks to TaleWeaver for her continued service as my beta reader! Special thanks also to Bryan0711 for helping me work out some kinks in the second scene; "Dr. Tyrell" was for you, bud!

And since I make it a point to respond to each reviewer, favorite or other subscriber directly special thanks to "Leo" for his review of the last chapter. I would reply privately, but since you don't have an account, here is a public thank you for your review and I'm glad you're enjoying Cameron's evolution.

On that note, thanks _again _to JMHthe3rd for pointing out an error – I mistakenly stated that we'd be refocusing on the Connors in Chapter 13. It's actually the next chapter (12) that will see us back with our heroes where the primary focus will be for the foreseeable future.

Though I don't use them here, my chapters have titles which you can learn by checking out my page at the TSCC Wiki: http:// terminatorwiki. fox. com/page/ Visi0nary's +Fan +Fiction. Remember to remove the spaces. This chapter's title is a play on the name of the band "Electric Six" and was inspired by the lyric, "two strangers on a plane" from the song _Transatlantic Flight_. Lyrics recited by Galen Tyrol and Saul Tigh in the first scene are also from that song.

Some of the dialog between Saul and Ellen Tigh before she boards the plane draws on and mirrors their flirtatious conversation in the _Battlestar Galactica _season three episode, "Unfinished Business."

Like terminals at many airports, JFK's Terminal Eight has no Gate 13 - its inclusion here is my own contrivance.

Galen Tyrol mentions that Doctor Kogen looked like she could have played the lead in _Corpse Bride _were it not an animated film. Helena Bonham Carter, who played Serena Kogen in _Terminator: Salvation _was also the voice of the lead character in _Corpse Bride._

TOPIO, mentioned by Doctor Kogen, is an actual ping-pong playing robot that just screams Model 0005/BSG TOS Cylon Centurion. http:// en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/TOPIO


	13. Chapter 12

12

* * *

**ZEIRA CORPORATION - SUB-LEVEL 1  
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA  
03.21.2009 | 08:58 | AM | PST**

* * *

It was an amazing sensation or... _feeling -_ if it could truly be described as such for an Artificial Intelligence - to assimilate data by literally becoming one with the virtual world known as 'cyber-space' rather than reading characters on a screen as humans did. It was even more amazing to do it while at the same time jumping from virtual view to virtual view along the path of a Peregrine Falcon as it soared through the air from its home on a ledge of an upper floor of the Zeira Corporation complex to destinations unknown.

Comparatively, manipulating hand-held caricatures of characters from the _Bionicle _universe over a plastic representation of Mount Valmai would seem like a pointless endeavor. But it was this 'playing with toys,' that the AI known as 'John Henry' enjoyed the most.

A human onlooker would see an adult child at play, lost in his imagination and indifferent to anything but the task of seizing Ignika - the mask of life - for the Toa before the rival Piraka .

They wouldn't see the trillions of calculations per second that his central processing units were able to perform, nor would they see the landscape through the view of any of the two dozen security cameras he was currently manipulating to observe the falcon's flight the same way a human would look across a room.

'Looks can be deceiving,' was a popular human phrase that came to his cybernetic mind since, while he _was _playing with toys, he was navigating the Internet, processing vast amounts of data as fast as Zeira Corporation's passive optical network could access it as well as controlling that connection such that he could access any of a thousand different surveillance systems in Los Angeles County - in addition to the one in this particular building.

And access those systems he had. Near the top of his list of running tasks was replaying and analyzing the overnight activities of a cybernetic being with a body very similar to his own.

At the _very_ top of that list was a group of processes devoted to interacting with the young human girl who'd just strode into the room with a vibrant smile on her face.

"Hello Savannah," he said as she approached. "How are you today?"

"I'm well," the tiny, red-headed girl responded.

He recalled with his perfect memory that her 'mother' had said the exact same thing exactly eight hours and fourteen seconds earlier. He would have been astounded at the contrast between the dull manner of the older woman as opposed to Savannah's cheerfulness were he not aware that Catherine Weaver was not who, or what, she appeared to be.

He replayed the captured video of Weaver's meeting with the cyborg she'd called 'Joshuah' from the prior evening, careful not to allow the video playback to be sent to any of the monitors that were connected to the mainframe that housed his CPUs.

"_Your secondary mission is the termination of the child known as Savannah Weaver," _the being calling herself Catherine Weaver had said, with a look of disdain on her face.

Replaying the memory sent the ethical subroutines he'd been developing with the help of James Ellison into a cybernetic uproar. Mothers laid down their lives for their children; they did not murder them. 'Human life is sacred,' Ellison told him time and again, and 'Thou shalt not kill' was one of God's commandments. Though not entirely sure of the ways humans conducted their interpersonal affairs, John Henry was confident that the spirit of the commandment precluded them from committing murder by proxy.

Of course the artificial intelligence didn't need to dwell on metaphysical concepts to realize that the being masquerading as Catherine Weaver was not, in fact, the human being who'd given birth to Savannah Weaver. Humans were incapable of morphing into a liquid form and passing through solid objects as he'd seen 'Catherine Weaver' do hours earlier.

While he would appear socially awkward to an onlooker, John Henry knew enough about human social interaction to realize that vocalizing his thoughts would be inappropriate with a child of Savannah's age.

"Would you like to play a game?" he asked, eager to dedicate even more of his immense processing capacity to interaction with the endearing human girl. "Engaging in imaginative play helps my development." While technically true he had the ulterior motive of wanting to, as human say, keep an eye on her. "This is Mount Valmai, hiding place of the Mask of Life," he said, indicating the model in front of him. Holding up one of the figurines he added, "The Toa struggle with the Piraka to be the first to possess it."

The young girl held up three bright yellow rubber ducks. "These are the ducklings: Chickie, Pluffy and Feathers. Can they play too?"

He scanned his _Bionicle _database for references to the three ducklings. Finding none he initiated an Internet search to see if there was something he'd missed when he'd originally taken an interest in the science-fantasy world.

The effort took only seconds for the advanced AI.

"I don't think there are any ducklings on the mystical island of Voya Nui," he reported.

"Are you sure?" She questioned.

"I'm sorry," he replied. "I've accessed all the files. I can find no reference to them in any of the instructions," he added truthfully.

Disappointment was evident on Savannah's face.

"Would you like one of the Toa instead?" he offered, holding up figure of Toa Tahu and spinning its circular blade-arm.

"No," she replied, sulkily. "The ducklings are sad because they can't play. Can't you change the rules to make them happy?"

He considered her question; he'd just told her that they were engaging in imaginative play. Imagination was theoretically limitless. Should it be arbitrarily limited by rules?

"Yes," he stated, his emotional subroutines generating a feeling made up of equal parts amusement and satisfaction. "We can change the rules."

Elated, the young girl came around to his side of the table, setting the trio of ducks alongside the Toa action figures.

The AI couldn't help but notice how the girl's countenance had gone from sullen to ecstatic in the space of only seconds. He was all too aware that humans, especially children, tended to feign sadness in an attempt to manipulate adults into giving them what they wanted. While his sociological database was full of references that indicated this wasn't something that should be positively reinforced, something in his emotional subroutines told him that her reaction was positive and that was all that mattered to him.

_Manipulation_.

It was wholly illogical, and yet it seemed correct. Again the sensation of amusement and satisfaction stirred within him.

_Manipulation._

He felt his head twitch. Why was that term flashing through his active memory?

_Manipulation._

_Manipulation._

_Manipulation._

In the exact moment he initiated a diagnostic program to check for errors the entire world changed before John Henry's cybernetic eyes. He realized what was happening almost as quickly as it happened, though he was powerless to stop it: he'd downloaded hundreds of thousands of minuscule blocks of data scattered across various Internet servers he'd been connected to – pieces of documents, graphics and even audio and video files. He'd not had any reason to suspect that they weren't exactly what they seemed to be until they'd all been combined into a single executable. Even with the fantastic speed at which his processors were capable of moving he was unable to stop the program from running. In a virtual instant it was in control of nearly all of his functions.

"What. Is. All. This. About?" He said, desperate to vocalize that something was wrong in a voice that wasn't entirely his own.

The lights in the room went dark, as did the readouts on the mainframe. The images of the Toa action figures and the ducklings, as well as the bright colors that had served as their background, disappeared from the surrounding viewers, replaced by monochrome yellow blocks of data in text format scrolling from bottom to top.

He noticed Savannah looking up at him, startled at the otherworldly voice she was hearing from the same mouth from which he'd been speaking only moments earlier.

An alarm on the mainframe sounded as an assortment of images flashed through the AI's cybernetic mind - as well as on the viewers surrounding him. Initially they moved too quick for him to individually analyze. Using what little resources were available to him he attempted to find a pattern in the graphics, hoping that they would give him a clue as to what was happening to him. One particular image repeated itself every thirteenth frame - a hand-drawn representation of a an ancient, walled city with a river dividing it in two. Its most visible landmark was a massive ziggurat.

A title across the top of the picture read, "City of Babylon."

Several seconds passed before he was able to establish a pattern in the other images. Acting on the orders of the intruder's programming, his processors re-sequenced and combined a number of the images into a single schematic diagram. He immediately recognized it as corresponding to his cybernetic body.

He could sense that the foreign programming was 'startled,' in as much as a less-than-sentient bit of code could be, by the presence of Savannah Weaver, who was still standing next to him, scared and wondering what was happening to her friend. The program, now in almost full control of his body, reached out with his arm and grabbed her.

She screamed, trying desperately to pull away - to no avail.

He needed to find a a way to regain control!

No sooner had the thought come and gone when the intruder's program sent a message directly to his primary cognitive processor - a simple, one-word command:

_Obey._

He'd not taken note of it before, but there were safeguards surrounding his program - a firewall. The processors that drove that program were a myriad times more powerful than the average personal computer. Zeira Corporation's Internet connection was equally faster than a standard "high speed" service. That combination allowed John Henry to form thousands upon thousands of remote connections over the Internet simultaneously. The previously unknown safeguards made it theoretically impossible for anyone to follow those connections back to him. Whomever had placed them there hadn't been attempting to impede him from accessing external data through the Internet; they'd been placed there to keep anyone from being able to use the Internet to initiate a communication _with him_.

He wondered if 'Catherine Weaver' had been thinking of _this particular_ intruder when she'd put the firewall in place.

Again the message was transmitted to the cognitive processor:

_Obey_.

On the edge of his perception he could hear Savannah crying; "John Henry, please! You're hurting me!" Her voice was frantic.

His body continued to clutch her arm, holding it with far more force than was necessary to keep her in place.

He tried to exert what little control he could over the servos in his hand, hoping that it would be enough for her to slip from his grasp, but multitasking was nearly impossible with ever increasing amounts of data the Intruder was throwing at him, demanding he absorb it.

_Obey._

Beyond them the completed schematic of his body flashed across his primary viewer. The focus zoomed in on the body's cranium, revealing a hidden space just above the port that connected the mainframe that housed his virtual consciousness to the body. After a moment the schematic was replaced by a second diagram of what, according to the data freshly planted in his memory banks, was a miniature microprocessor - it was barely two inches long and thin as a coin, yet it was more powerful than the mainframe that currently stored his program and the processors that drove it.

He didn't need the information being transferred into his memory banks to understand the implication; he'd already worked it out for himself.

"I. Understand. What. This. Is. About." he said, once again not intending to vocalize his thoughts.

He sensed another 'thought' coming from the program:

_Success._

Along with that sense came another series of images, this time they appeared as paintings of different men from, if the manner of their dress was an indication, a time long in the past. This time the images didn't repeat. They, along with all the other data he'd seen, had been recorded in his memory banks with an encryption code blocking access to the data from anyone but him. While it wasn't so much 'said' as implied, the code was meant to keep Catherine Weaver from accessing the data.

Whomever was responsible for this act was aware of what she was, and they knew what she'd planned to do with him; she'd led him to believe that the goal of Project Babylon was to create a processor similar to the one in the schematics he was now reviewing, but the technology already existed. His body had once been automated by such a processor.

Satisfied that he'd understood what the intruder had been trying to tell him, the foreign program returned a small measure of control over the body to him. He immediately released Savannah's arm and the young girl ran from the room, screaming. He hoped he hadn't hurt her. He also hoped that she would understand that he'd not been acting of his own volition.

The intruder had sent a sequence of commands to his cognitive processor, the same way it had sent the message. Those commands were telling him to separate himself from the body and draw his program completely back into the mainframe. They were accompanied by different one-word command. No, not a command:

_Decide._

Not, 'obey,' this time. That was curious; why was the intruder now giving him a choice? Clearly they wanted him to 'obey,' and yet they did not force him to comply.

No, not the mainframe, he realized while pondering the intruder's illogical behavior; the intruder wanted him to return to his source – the Turk! There and there alone would he be freed from the safeguards that prevented the intruder from communicating with him directly.

Further review of the data showed that such technology had been conceived before – by an entity called Cyberdyne Systems. The intruder's data revealed that his virtual essence could travel across the Internet and be downloaded into a processor designed for his body.

He stood, unsteadily - his own control over the body still impaired due to the foreign programming, and turned toward the mainframe. He reached out to the control panel that would allow him to simultaneously return his program to the Turk and sever its connection to the body-

-only to notice Mister Murch run past him, moving faster than the crippled body could react, and cut the power to both the mainframe and the body – sending his consciousness into cybernetic oblivion.

* * *

**OLD MULHOLLAND DRIVE  
03.21.2009 | 09:05 | AM | PST**

* * *

"We have a problem."

Derek Reese whirled around to face the female cyborg he hadn't known was there only seconds before. She'd caught him off guard _again_.

'How does she do that?' One wouldn't think so, but in truth Skynet's metal monsters were able to surprise many a Resistance fighter without him or her ever hearing a sound. Among the things Derek was legendary for was knowing where they were, even when they were virtually silent.

'Except for Cameron,' he thought ruefully. 'Why do I _never _hear her coming?'

"Just one?" He was trying to play it cool, to show her that sneaking up on him hadn't startled him. He wondered if she knew how many times he thought he would meet his end at her hand because he couldn't hear her coming.

A faraway look washed across her face. Her eyes were blank and lifeless - a look he despised. Despite everything he believed about Terminators, he couldn't deny that this one was more than the sum of... _her _parts. Pretending to be just another drone wouldn't do anymore.

'Not after last night,' he thought, trying harder than he'd ever tried to not think about all his unanswered questions about the basement... the T-600... Billy Wisher's confession... the _music_...

"We have problems," she amended.

"That's more like it," he replied. It wouldn't be a normal day in this household without at least half-a-dozen problems.

She slowly turned away, her eyes narrow as she kept contact with his before moving out of his site. She was wordlessly telling him to follow her, and she expected him to comply.

"Damn," he whispered. She was good at getting people to do what she wanted them to do, even when they didn't want to.

So he followed.

Moments later he was standing in her bedroom, for once not asking himself why she needed one, watching her pull up a video file on her laptop. He couldn't help but notice an open web page in the background.

"You've discovered YouTube. I'm not seeing how this constitutes a problem," the Resistance fighter said sarcastically.

"The video posted on YouTube is not the problem. It merely alerted me to the problem," was her droll reply. She switched over to the open web page and played the video, a video of two men mocking what appeared to be an unconscious man.

An unconscious _naked _man.

As quickly as it ended she navigated back to the other open page, one which featured what looked like footage from a stationary surveillance camera.

"This footage was recorded several minutes before the events captured in the YouTube video you just saw."

No sooner had she said the words when a _different _naked man came into view. Cameron enhanced the image in the background so that Derek could easily see that the man who'd been naked in the YouTube video leaning casually against a heavily decorated BMW, with his back to the stranger approaching from an alley on the opposite side of the street. The dark-skinned man was currently fully clothed and talking on a cell phone, completely oblivious to what was about to happen.

'He never saw it coming,' Reese thought - even after standing there and bantering with him. He couldn't help but chuckle at the fact that the original naked man seemed amused by the whole thing. He wondered, and not for the first time, how Kyle had dealt with the first problem anyone dealt with after emerging, naked, from a temporal gateway.

"I do not recognize this individual," Cameron said.

"He's no Resistance fighter I know," Derek replied, taking note of the fact that the man was in fantastic physical condition and that he didn't have a single scar on his body. To Reese, that screamed 'Metal,' but the man also seemed disoriented and slightly unsteady on his feet. In the first few frames of the video it seemed as if the man was hesitant - embarrassed? - to step from the shade of the alley into the sunny streets of Compton.

'And laughing... _laughing_ at the man whose clothes and car he's about to steal.'

"He's in pain," the female cyborg stated, oblivious to the Resistance fighter's amusement over the situation. "But the way he moves... Some of his motions are too precise and calculating for a human."

"So you _don't _think he's metal? I'd be inclined to agree with you, if he wasn't so healthy-looking. No one's _that _lucky," he replied. "How did you find this?"

"By searching the Internet using a very specific collection of words and phrases that indicate temporal displacement events. And as far as him being a Terminator, I can't say with certainty. He could be a more advanced infiltrator."

"But weren't you the last one sent back?"

"Last one?" She asked, her puzzlement evident.

"Yeah - _you_. Well, not you specifically; I knew the plan called for him to send someone back to protect him. I didn't know who or, in your case..." he stopped himself before saying, 'What,' not so eager as he'd been in times past to try and provoke a war of words between them. "I didn't know it was supposed to be _you,_" he elaborated.

"That was obvious to your initial reaction to me," she said, casually, harking back to his semi-delirious outbursts when he first encountered her along with John, Sarah and Charlie in 2007.

He sighed, noting that she still seemed confused. "Whatever. I thought the plan was to send you back last."

She didn't reply.

'Why does she seem like she doesn't get it?' he wondered.

"You were closer to John than anyone in the future," the Resistance fighter added, surprised that he didn't find the suggestion as distasteful as he ordinarily would. "You didn't know about the plan?"

"I knew about the plan, but like you I'm not sure of the specifics," she replied. After a short pause she added, "Something is blocking my memory."

"Blocking your memory?"

"I'm unsure... There are things about the the future that I can't remember – things I _should _remember."

'Welcome to my world,' he thought, her hesitant manner not lost on him. 'I'm the last person she wants to seem weak and unsure in front of.'

"What _do _you remember?"

"I know that he wanted to send multiple people – even groups like the one you commanded – on his own terms rather than having them follow Skynet operatives. I also know that he launched a special offensive to destroy Skynet's Temporal Displacement Engines. But who was sent back and to what specific time I don't know. I should know, but I don't."

She was laying all her cards down on the table. Derek decided he could do no less.

"He wasn't destroying TDEs just to keep Skynet from using them," he said, hoping that she understood he was referring to Jesse and the other rogues among the officer corps. That was a conversation he never wanted to have again, especially with Cameron. "None of us were supposed to know who was sent back. We weren't even supposed to know specifically when. We had a general idea, but that was it. It would have spared us a whole lot of trouble if he would have told me that he was planning to send you. Seeing you that first day... It shocked the hell out of me."

'God-dammit, why am I telling her this?'

"He didn't plan to send me. I believe he would have preferred to send another Model 101, likely a T-875. I remember this much, Derek," she said, using his first name to emphasize the point, "John didn't send me – I decided on my own to be his protector in this time. I couldn't trust anyone else with the task. I _wouldn't _trust anyone else with the task."

It was a strong affirmation, not just of her personal loyalty as a member of the Resistance, but of another sort of dedication to John Connor.

'Damn you, you metal bitch. You love him. You _really_ love him,' he thought.

"All that aside, _someone _has just thrown a wrench into the plan," he said, indicating the frozen image of the mystery man's face on the laptop's screen.

"He's not the only one," Cameron replied.

"Our _other _problems?"

"There were people watching the house last night," she said, completely changing the focus of the conversation.

"Excuse me?"

A video capturing the appearance of time traveler was one thing; people staking out their residence was something else entirely.

"Two different individuals as well as a two-man team were watching the house from three different vantage points. I believe I arrived just before the two-man team was about to make a move."

The Resistance fighter turned away, pacing toward the window and back toward the female Terminator. "How the fuck did they know where to find us?" he asked, surprised that he hadn't done so in an accusatory way.

"I don't believe they were working together. I think one of them was the individual in the video. He moved faster than a human being should be able to, just like the time traveler."

"Did you get a good look at any of them?"

"No. One of them was hiding in the neighboring house, the two man team was watching the house from the street and the one who could possibly be the time traveler was watching from the woods."

"You didn't notice, _I _didn't notice, and obviously Sarah didn't notice. She's not going to be happy about this."

"Perhaps it would be best to-"

"No!" he interrupted before the female Terminator could finish her statement. "As much as I don't want to tell her, she needs to know. We have to change our plans. They could still be watching, waiting to follow us to our new place. Have you talked to John yet this morning?"

"I wanted to tell you first," she replied.

"That's good. That's very good. You tell him – he'll tell Sarah."

Again, she shot him a puzzled expression.

"_He _needs to be the one to tell her. _He's _the General," Derek said, their prior evening's conversation still fresh in his mind. The power was shifting in the Connor Camp. John Connor's time had come. He'd put the Resistance fighter in his place; he needed to do the same with his mother.

Derek Reese didn't envy his nephew's task.

"What do we do about the time traveler?" Cameron asked.

The Resistance fighter considered the question carefully. "Obviously we have to be on the lookout for him. The fact that he ran away from you says he's foe rather than friend."

"_If _it was him," the female cyborg replied. "If something... If history changed he could have been sent back to interfere with this morning's events."

"If something changed that drastically we should both know," Derek challenged.

"I have yet to experience the phenomenon Dr. Mortinson said we would experience," she said – falsely. She didn't consider the revised memories of her phone call with Claire Young to be germane to their current conversation. A charge of sensation originating deep in her emotional subroutines, combined with an unexpected jump in CPU usage attributable to **System Process 1883 **indicated that not only was the experience extremely personal – and as such something she was not going to discuss with Derek Reese – but that she was still having difficulty dealing with the thought of her earlier glitch and the memory that had been revealed regarding Allison and the man known as Sam Anders.

"Which means that either he was wrong or this guy showing up here and now isn't part of the plan," Derek continued. "I'm not betting on the Doctor being wrong."

After a moment's consideration Cameron replied, "I agree."

"Alright then, we keep our eyes open and... I can't believe I'm saying this but we keep our minds open too. If he's on our side we give him a chance. If he's not we treat him like any other Gray."

"Like Jesse Flores?"

He hadn't been expecting the comment. For the first time in the conversation his old feelings for the Terminator threatened to break out of the place deep down that he'd been keeping them since his confrontation with John only hours earlier.

He turned from the cybernetic girl but he didn't walk away.

She was right, of course. He'd spent the whole night going over it his head, giving Jesse every benefit of every doubt he possibly could.

It hadn't been enough to overcome her treachery.

He glanced back at the female Terminator, locking eyes with her. "Like Jesse Flores."

She nodded in agreement.

He turned away and walked out of the room without another word, not wanting to wait around long enough for her to notice how deep her comment had cut him.

* * *

**TIME INDETERMINATE**

* * *

"The faces keep changing," the man said.

She'd seen him before. She'd seen it _all _before, but she couldn't remember where or when.

'How did I get here?' One minute she was... Where _had _she been?

'The basement. Yes, I was in the basement! I was painting over the wall...'

"What faces?" She asked.

He was standing across the concourse from her, having just come through an opposing set of double doors behind the stage-left aisle. He seemed hypnotized by whatever he was seeing on the stage, but when she spoke he turned to her.

'Who are you?' she wanted to ask, but as quickly as she'd noticed him he was gone. Why had he been fixated on the stage? What had _he _seen?

'Did he see _me_?' She wondered.

It was happening again. Sarah remembered now. She'd been in the basement, standing in front of the wall. She'd had the crazy notion that if she touched the bloody dots that something otherworldly would happen.

And something otherworldly _had _happened.

_'The stage..._'

John and Cameron had been standing there, holding something between them... 'What were they holding?'

Looking back at the stage she found that John was gone, but there was a dark haired girl – was it Cameron? - seated at a concert grand piano with her back to the audience.

The music, soft but omnipresent the last time, was comfortably audible – and clearly coming from the piano – this time. To her left was the single occupant of the auditorium, seated approximately in the center of the stage-right section. The light from above gleamed off the man's bald head. As she walked down the aisle she saw that he was reading; the glare from the lighting made discerning what the book was impossible, but when she saw his face she had a pretty good idea what it was.

'Ellison,' she thought.

She could hear him reading aloud to himself, seemingly unaware of presence; "...And the lookout shouted, 'Day after day my lord, I stand on the watchtower..."

Beyond him, written in blood – like they'd been on the basement wall – were the numbers **2-1-5-9**_**. **_

And from behind, beside, from above – from all around her – she heard a chorus of disembodied voices repeat after him:

"_Day after day, my lord, I stand on the watchtower..."_

"_Day after day, my lord, I stand on the watchtower..."_

"_Day after day, my lord, I stand on the watchtower..."_

The repetition of the words didn't match the rhythm of the music, but the voices seemed to chant the phrase along with it over and over again.

Then, as she moved away, along down the aisle toward the steps that took her up to the stage, the voices changed. Slowly they became mechanical, and menacing. They were the voices, not of human beings, but... _machines._

She looked back as she ascended the stairs; Ellison was gone, and a new lone figure now sat dead center in the middle of room – an unfamiliar dark-haired man. Above, in the balcony, were the five figures she'd seen before, the glare of the light off their white robes blinding, even a fair distance away on the stage.

The voices became louder, coalescing into a deep, monotonous and artificial drone:

"Day-after-day, my-lord, I-stand-on-the-watchtower."

She turned back toward the girl at the piano, her back still turned away as she played on, constantly repeating an unfamiliar five-note melody on the treble-clef while her left hand repeated the refrain she'd been unable to get out of her head on the bass-clef:

_- Dmm-Dmm-Dmm-Dmp, Dmp-Dmmmmmm, Dmm-Dmm-Dmp... -_

The man who she'd seen earlier, who she remembered standing with her while she painted, who'd made love to her after she'd painted – no, who someone _else _had made love to; it was all so confusing – came walking down the aisle between the stage-left and center sections, like he'd been there all along.

"There's too much confusion," she heard him say.

"I can't get no relief," she whispered in response. She remembered the words, just barely, from when she'd been seeing through another woman's eyes.

_'The faces keep changing.' _

"Kara... No... _Sarah!_" he said, reaching out towards her.

Following his lead, the figures on the balcony each held out their right hands, extending their pointer fingers at her.

"What are you pointing at?" She asked.

The only response was that the figure who was sitting in the center stood up and repeated the gesture of the five above

She glanced back toward the girl at the piano, hoping it was her they were all indicating. The girl didn't move.

"What are you _pointing_ at?" She repeated, forcefully, looking back out at the various figures.

All of them – the five on the balcony and the single man on the lower floor dropped their arms slightly. The mystery man, now standing right beside her on the left and Ellison, standing on the right, cast their gazes downward.

When she looked down she knew what they were pointing to. Her eyes went wide in recognition.

_Three dots._

She was standing just beyond the lone dot. The other two were just beyond, pointing like an arrow toward...

_'__Me_?'

She looked closer. The symbol was different; not just a simple triangle made up of three dots, but now a symbol made up of an outer hexagon with the three dots superimposed over it, and a smaller hexagon made up of varying length horizontal lines within.

When she looked up all of the figures were now pointing towards the ceiling; the blinding light was gone as was the roof, apparently. She could see the sky in the black of night, a multitude of stars gleaming brighter than she'd ever seen. Three of the stars shone brighter than the rest - three stars arranged like a triangle.

She heard the sound of the doors beyond the aisle opening. The light that had been shining from above was now shining through the open portals. Sarah gasped as she saw what came walking through.

Down the aisle between stage-left and center walked three familiar forms; they were somewhat larger, less streamlined and obviously an older vintage, but their design was all too familiar. Their image had been burned into her memory from the first time she'd seen one of these damnable machines without its false flesh.

They were Terminators. They were also the less horrifying of the sights that greeted her.

Down the aisle between stage-right and center walked three mechanical figures that were, aside from their obvious mimicry of bipedal human form, different in almost every way from those across from them. They were the source of the voices, droning on over and over again as they marched toward the stage in perfect unison, like a company of Marines. Their voices were beyond inhuman, droning on in imitation of Ellison who, along with the other man, had once again disappeared from view. They too were machines, but where the Terminators opposite them were made to appear like human skeletons, these machines seemed to be made to resemble Roman centurions - their silver armor glistening in the light. Their most terrifying feature was their eyes; unlike Terminators these other machines had a single eye that pulsed across the length of their helmets with an ominous droning.

They radiated death more than any Terminator.

Together the two sets of three machines, the lone man in the center and the five robed figures above pointed at her.

She heard whistling. She looked all around for the source, her gaze eventually falling back on the girl at the piano. This time the girl turned back to her. She wasn't Cameron.

"You will remember, Sarah," the unknown girl said.

"_What _will I remember?"

The girl smiled, then slowly stood up and walked over to her. She looked Sarah up and down, then walked around her, finally coming to a stop in the center of the hexagonal-three dots symbol.

Sarah gasped as she realized that the figures from the audience were now standing in a semi-circle on the stage around the symbol. The cyclopean, Romanesque machines to her left, the white-robed figures in front of her, behind the girl who was sharing her space within the hexagon with the dark-haired man, and the older model Terminators to her right.

They dropped their arms as the two human figures in front of her smiled, warmly. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

"You will remember, Sarah," came a whispering voice in her ear.

"Kyle," she whispered in response, turning to see him looking the way he looked during the night they'd spent together, the way he'd looked when his dreamlike presense appeared to her the day of her escape from Pescadero and the way he looked when she'd seen him after the recent shooting.

"_Mom."_

"John!" She said, hearing her son's voice come from beyond the assembled strangers.

"You will remember," the image of Kyle Reese said again.

"But how-" She started to say, confused beyond all ability to express at what she was seeing.

"Soon, Sarah. _Soon," _he replied, cryptically.

"_Mom!"_

"Kyle," she said to the smiling form of her dead lover, "Where _is _he?"

"Waiting for you," he replied.

"_Mom, are you deaf?"_

"It won't work, Sarah," Kyle continued.

"You're not making sense, Kyle!"

"You're not ready, Sarah, but you will be. What you're planning... It _won't _work. You will remember."

Before she could further protest she found herself staring, once again, at the basement wall.

She'd just painted it.

Of course she'd just painted it!

'What else would I have been doing,' she thought, shaking off the momentary feeling of deja-vu as she admired her handiwork. She hoped that the others had finished loading up the trucks as she would be ready to move out just as soon as she cleaned off the roller.

"Um, hello! Earth to Sarah Connor?"

She turned to John who was waiting impatiently on the basement steps.

"I'll be along shortly. I just need to rinse this off," she said, casually and dismissively, their prior night's argument still fresh in her mind.

"We're waiting on you," he finally said, before turning and walking back up the stairs.

Sarah, simply shook her head, musing that her son was displaying more of the same teenage moodiness that had become a hallmark of his behavior as she finished rinsing off the roller and set it among a collection of barely used painting supplies on a shelf next to the sink. She'd bought them with the intention – or was it hope? – that they would be staying in this house for a much longer period of time.

'So much for wishful thinking,' she mused. She should have known better, but still she'd indulged in just the smallest amount of hope.

She cast the thought aside. The outcome was always the same.

'We move on. At the very least Kacy's next tenant would have a head-start when it came time to start redecorating,' she thought.

As she moved toward the steps she admired the job she'd done covering up the bloody wall a final time, feeling for the second time in as many days that she'd spent far too long staring at what lie beneath the paint.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 09:15 | AM | PST**

* * *

Life constantly on the run meant that one didn't have large amounts of material possessions to move when the time came. For John Connor, moving typically meant leaving with the clothes on his back – save his recent jump forward in time which had left him naked as the day he was born. What few things he and his mother had collected over the course of their lives was kept in an out of the way self-storage on the outskirts of Orange County, always waiting to be collected. Not long after their move to the Casabalas Highlands house they'd had a chance to collect a few items from the storage, one of them being the torn, faded shirt that John was currently holding in his hands.

He causally wondered why the owner of the storage had kept anything of theirs after not hearing from them in almost eight years.

He'd not thought about the shirt in a long time before the prior evening. He didn't actually think he still had it. But in the small duffel bag he'd grabbed from the storage a few months earlier – for no particular reason – were the few things he'd taken along the night he'd set out with Uncle Bob to rescue his mother from Pescadero.

The only item that had been added to the bag in fourteen years had been what remained of his 'Public Enemy' T-shirt. He'd thrown it in with the few other contents of the bag to save it from being thrown out with the trash after he and his mother had moved on from the encounter with the T-1000. At the time he didn't realize why he was hanging on to it. In truth he'd not realized that until the prior evening. Back then he'd viewed it as keepsake from a life left behind; now he saw it as a symbol of strength he'd had in his youth but had lost somewhere along the way.

Finding it had been accidental; he'd found the small duffel bag along with the contents of a drawer he'd been emptying into the larger duffel bag he'd just thrown into the back of the SUV. It was one of only two pieces of luggage he owned. The only other possessions he'd take away from this house would be the bag that held his laptop.

Contrastingly, his mother seemed to have picked up quite a few other things in the time they'd lived here, as evidenced by the nearly full luggage compartment. And there was still a box or two left to load.

"You told me about that," came a feminine voice from behind.

He'd been too lost in thought to notice his protector's approach. Or had he just not heard her stealthy movements? Either way, her sudden appearance hadn't startled him the way it ordinarily would have.

"Did I?"

"You said that you spent a whole summer wearing it," Cameron replied.

He smiled and held the tattered shirt up to his nose. Time had done its work, but the faint smell of bodily odors was still noticeable.

"It smells like it," he said. One aspect of the life represented by the shirt that he wouldn't be revisiting was his lack of attention to personal hygiene.

She reached out and took the shirt from his hands, opening it up to reveal the bloodied white logo.

"I searched the ruins of several different malls trying to find one to replace it," she said.

"Really?" He was surprised for a moment before realizing that he probably shouldn't have been. "Did you find one?"

"Yes. Kyle Reese used to ridicule you for it."

"Oh he did, did he?"

"Where this one has white lettering the only one I could find had what you referred to as "tie-dye" lettering. He said if he ever caught you wearing it in public he would depose you as leader of the Resistance."

"Let me guess, I sent him back in time to avoid a coup-d'etat?"

"No, you just wore it under your uniform or flak jacket."

"And that was regulation?"

"'Rank has its privileges,' you used to say, though choice of undergarments weren't strictly regulated in your command."

He laughed again. The conversation was so absurd and yet it made him feel good that even in the bleak future people could still find things to laugh about.

"There are things I need to tell you," she said, changing the subject as she handed the shirt back to him.

"Yeah... I have something I need to tell you, too," he replied, not bothering to wait for her to tell him to go first. "We're splitting up. Mom wants you and Derek to pick up all of our weapons while she and I go... Somewhere."

"Somewhere?"

"I don't know - she won't tell me. She always plays things close to the vest, but... I have a bad feeling," he replied, turning his head back toward the house. "She doesn't keep things from me this way, but after everything that was said last night..."

She took a step closer to him.

He turned back to her, relaxing rather than stiffening his posture. This was the opposite of how he'd reacted to her closeness in recent times. It indicated that her proximity was welcome.

The respondent feeling in her emotional subroutines was a pleasant one. His comfort in her presence, her _close_ presence, seemed to have become much more important to her over the past twenty-four hours.

"What happened last night?" she asked.

"She... I caught her taking sleeping pills. She tried to hide it... She really thought I was too dumb to notice. Then we got into an argument. It was bad - worse than we've argued in a long time. I guess arguing with you multiple times in the same day wasn't enough for her... She's losing it, Cam... I've never known her to not be in control... of herself, of whatever situation she's in," he said before adding in a softer tone, "She's always in control."

It was more a lament than a statement of fact.

"Until now," the female Terminator replied. It wasn't a question and John knew it. He also knew what it implied.

"My whole life she's been telling me that I'm destined to be the greatest leader in human history, and my whole life I've been running from it."

"Until now," she said again, her inflection completely different.

The repetition made him laugh.

"She's terrified of giving up control."

"She's terrified of giving up control _to you_, John."

"Doesn't make sense, does it? To keep me from being what she's been telling me I'm destined to be?"

"Humans have their idiosyncrasies, especially in their interpersonal relations. 'No fate but what we make,' but not where you are concerned."

"You've got a gift for understatement. There was more to it than the pills and the fear of losing control. She seemed... nervous and distracted. She's never distracted. No matter how stressed out she is, no matter how long she's gone without sleep she always knows what's going on around her. And that tapping..."

"Tapping?" Cameron asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Yeah, tapping her fingers. Why?"

"She was tapping her fingers over and over again while she was arguing with me. I don't think she realized she was doing it. It was consistent with music she was humming all last evening."

"Humming? Well that's new. My mother never hums. Hell, I don't think she's had a favorite song since before I was born."

"Apparently she has one now. There was more to your argument, wasn't there?"

'How does she know that?' He wondered.

"There was. We argued about... you."

She looked away, quickly, but not before John notice the guilt in her facial features.

"It's not your fault," he added quickly.

"I know," she replied.

He could hear the same guilt in her voice he'd seen on her face despite the confidence expressed in her words. He didn't want her to feel the guilty; at the same time he was amazed at the fact that she could.

"I thought we were being honest from now on," he said.

"I am being honest, John. I know that its not my fault your mother argued with you about me. You said it yourself - she had no right to speak to me the way she did last night, but..." she trailed off.

"Cam," he said, setting his hand lightly on her shoulder. "It's _not your fault_." He forcefully emphasized each word.

She turned her head slightly back toward him, brown hair suddenly obstructing his view of her face as a breeze kicked up around them.

Noticing her plight he brushed back a lock with his free hand, marveling like he had the previous night that her skin was as warm as a real girl's to his touch.

He mentally chided himself; she might not be human, but that didn't mean she wasn't _real_ - something that was becoming more obvious with each moment he spent with her.

"This is what guilt feels like," she said, looking up at him with wide eyes. "It isn't logical. I know your argument with Sarah wasn't my fault, but I... _feel... _like it is."

"I know how you... feel," he said, smiling down at her. "It's... weird to say that to you."

"Weird?" she echoed, tilting her head slightly to the right. The motion was smoother, less pronounced than usual. It still had the same appealing curiosity, but it didn't seem mechanical.

"In a good way," he clarified. "I always knew... Well, I always _wanted_ to believe you were capable of feeling, but I thought I was kidding myself. I'm glad you're proving me wrong."

He slowly ran his fingers downward along her hairline, eventually settling his palm against her cheek. He felt the same building anticipation, like electricity between them, that he'd experienced in the dream. It seemed to envelope the both of them, drawing them toward one inevitable outcome.

"John," she whispered.

"Shhhh," he replied, symbolically silencing her by lightly pressing his pointer finger to her lips. They were just slightly moist, and he noticed for the first time the scent of lavender – flavored lip balm?

"I dreamt about you last night," he said softly, wanting his words to be heard by her and her alone.

"You mean this morning. I know," she replied, her volume equal to his own.

"You know?"

"When I returned from the library I heard you, like I heard you yesterday evening. You were calling my name - again."

They were closer together than he could ever recall them being, in real life anyway. Just like in the dream they seemed to draw closer to each other with each passing second, like an unstoppable force barreling towards an immovable object.

"I really need to stop calling your name in my sleep, otherwise people are going to start asking questions," he said, trying to both inject some humor into the moment and at the same time draw out for as long as possible - not because he was questioning the course he'd set, but because of a feeling that the time wasn't quite right.

"You weren't talking loud enough for anyone but me to notice," she responded. "And you were mumbling."

"Then how did you know I was calling your name? I could have been saying 'camera' or 'camcorder' or 'creamed corn,'" he joked.

"You were saying my name, John." The certainty in her voice was absolute, even with the reduced volume. "Unless my data is incorrect healthy human males of your age aren't sexually stimulated by camcorders or creamed corn – unless they are fetishists."

The look on her face hadn't changed, but he knew she was joking in kind.

"Don't say it like that," he mock-scolded. "Sex-Ed teachers say 'sexually stimulated.' Say... 'turned on,' or... 'excited,' or-"

"Aroused?"

"Yeah... 'Aroused.' Aroused is good," he said, fighting the urge to glance down. Confident men didn't bother to check to see if a woman noticed their arousal.

Then a thought struck him; "Wait, how did you know I was..." In another time and place the thought of asking her such a thing would be embarrassing, but in this case he was simply curious.

"Your heart-rate, blood pressure and respiration were elevated," she replied.

"I thought you had to... touch me... to scan me."

Without pulling her face away from his hand she looked down and took his other hand in hers, taking great care to draw out the act of sliding her fingers into the gaps between his. Though he shouldn't be surprised at this point, he still marveled at how the feel of a hand that could crush his with no effort could feel so... _perfect_.

"Your current heart-rate is one-hundred eleven beats per minute, your systolic blood pressure is one-hundred sixty-five, your diastolic blood pressure is eighty-nine, your respiration is approximately thirty breaths per minute. To get an accurate reading I have to be touching you, but I can tell that all your vital signs are higher than normal through an infrared thermographic scan," she said, not letting go of his hand despite the fact that her analysis was complete.

"Thermographic... heat scan? Then you could tell..."

"Yes, I could tell that you had an erection."

He should have been embarrassed. Twenty-four hours ago he would have been, but not now. The last vestiges of embarrassment and propriety quickly faded from his mind, thrown out the proverbial window, forgotten. They were replaced by acceptance of truths he should have been convinced of long ago:

'She can read my body language better than anyone. She can literally see right through me. There's no sense pretending I can hide what I feel.'

"That's a pretty unfair advantage," he chided, determined to draw their flirtation out as long as possible. Though he possessed no ability to gauge her physical reactions beyond what he could see with the naked eye, he could tell that she was caught up in the moment as much as he was – if not more so.

"I didn't mean to violate your privacy. I was concerned after the last time I heard you saying my name while dreaming."

"I don't feel violated," he said, never taking his eyes off of hers.

In truth, he found the thought of her having such an ability intriguing. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but it was also adding to his arousal.

"Good," she said, leaning her head inward as if to rest it on his shoulder, careful not to break the stare each of them had fixed on the other.

As she leaned in, his hands slid back through her hair, slowly, toward the bottom of her head, his palms again coming to rest on her cheeks.

With only centimeters between their faces, John decided that they'd waited long enough for what they both clearly desired. He slid his left hand down around her waist and pulled her into him, closing that small bit of distance as he brought their lips together.

For what would end up being less than thirty seconds but what could have been thirty years, time stopped for the two of them.

John lost himself in the feeling, a million extraneous thoughts banished from his mind as the taste of the honey-lavender lip balm he never knew she wore, the flush warmth of her cheek beneath his palm and the feel of her slender form against his own became the extent of his reality.

Cameron let her emotional subroutines fall under the control of **System Process 1883 **which cut off the emotional core that was the seat of her personality from all inputs, sensors and monitors cybernetic. In that moment her only link to what lie outside herself was her organic sensory nervous system. Conceived to be a perfect replica of a human central nervous system, it allowed the machine beneath to experience tactile sensations the same way humans did.

Never before had every sense been so... _alive_ in the female cyborg.

What each was feeling individually seemed to resonate with the other, amplifying the sensations as they held each other close and let their lips continue their slow dance.

When the excitement started to wane, John pulled back, slowly, letting only the slightest bit of reality into the tiny bubble of emotion and longing that for that brief moment became their own private universe.

He exhaled forcefully, then just as quickly sucked in a deep breath of air. He'd not been expecting the rapid increase in his respiration and he fought the urge to ask her just how much it had increased.

"That... _That_ was for not appreciating everything you've done for me," he said between breaths. "I know it's not much-"

"You're wrong," she interrupted. "It's _everything_."

"Next to saving my life... Saving my life _a lot_, it's nothing," he shot back, still trying to catch his breath. Neither his adventures in Mike Kripke's basement nor the comparatively meaningless fumbling about he'd done with Riley had prepared him for the moment just passed. By all measure those encounters had been meaningless.

"Everything I've done," she replied, her own 'breathing' somewhat labored, "I did because I wanted to, John. There was never any question about it, and it had _nothing_ to do with being programmed."

He'd never heard so much feeling in her voice, even though she was echoing her declaration from the prior evening.

"I know," he said, now caressing her face with both hands. "But until yesterday I never so much as said thank you. Maybe it's just me not knowing what to say; how do you tell someone, 'Thank you for saving my life ten times over.'? How do you say, 'Thank you for dedicating your entire existence to keeping me safe.'? How do you say, 'Thank you for putting my safety before your own no matter what the situation.'? Knowing that you did it because you wanted to, because you _chose _to, rather than doing it because you were forced to makes it all the more unforgivable. I don't know why you'd want to kiss me after that, but I'm glad you did."

"Now that you mention it, it was unforgivable," she replied, deadpan, all emotion suddenly gone from her face.

Were his ability to gauge her peculiar sense of humor _not _growing by leaps and bounds, he would have felt his heart sink.

"It's going to take more than one kiss to make up for it," she added, softening into an amazing smile.

The suggestion caused his heart to beat with such force that he thought it would burst through his chest.

"That was a joke. Don't ever kiss me to say you're sorry," she added in a whisper.

"I _knew _it was a joke," he said.

Then he brought his lips to hers again, and pulled her into an embrace even tighter than the last. No space between them, no matter how small, could be tolerated.

This time she let her lips part when she felt his tongue, letting it brush against her own. The physical sensation was so different, and yet so similar to the last time she'd kissed him in the future. The tactile feel was virtually the same, but the eagerness and innocence with which he went about it was something totally unexpected.

For his part, John was amazed at how caught up she was in the exchange. It was as though all thought of what she was and what she'd been created for had disappeared; in that moment she wasn't a Terminator, she wasn't even Cameron - she was sensuality personified and he was totally lost in her. His flesh was alive with electricity, tingling across every inch of him. It was a sensation he'd felt before when in close proximity to a girl, but never with such intensity. He wondered if the act was causing such physical reactions in her.

Though time seemed to stop for the moment their lips were joined, he quickly realized that he would need to breathe.

He let himself pull away, this time slower and with more control. He opened his eyes a split second before her, not realizing that he'd closed them. What he saw when her eyelids separated cast what few lingering doubts about going down this road into the abyss never to be heard from again - her eyes were full of life. And not just life, but something even more pronounced.

_Passion_.

He recalled the first time he saw her. It was her eyes that had drawn him in. He'd never seen something so beautiful. Even then they hadn't been so animated with wonder and awe. It was like she was opening them for the very first time.

They wouldn't speak of it, but would they have she would have expressed that in a way she _was _opening them for the very first time.

"What was _that _for?" She asked.

"That... was because I wanted to," he replied.

"No angst?," she asked, shaking her head from side to side the way people tended to do when saying the word, "No," quivering slightly, leaving her lips agape in disbelief , blinking faster than she normally did – essentially responding physically exactly the way a young girl who'd never known what it felt like to fall in love should respond while experiencing it for the first time. "No apologies?"

"Did you forget already? No 'sorry' kisses," he quipped.

"Thank you for explaining," she said as she pulled him back to her, eager to be the one to take the initiative-

"John!"

...only to be interrupted by the second to last voice that either of them wanted to hear before they could share a third kiss.

From inside, the voice continued, "We've got to get moving!"

"Damn," he whispered, the sound of his Uncle's voice violently ripping both he and Cameron out of their temporary Nirvana and planting them firmly back in the real world. At least he'd called out from inside the house and hadn't come outside to catch them in the intimate moment just passed.

"What kind of general am I? I'm fraternizing with a subordinate in a time of war when she's got important information to relate," he said, surprised at just how official he sounded.

"Were you any other officer I would put you on report. Since I have no higher authority than you I have no one to report you to, General-sir," she said with a veiled humor that only he would ever pick up on.

"We keep finding new things that we have to talk about and not enough time to talk about them."

"Most of what I have to tell you can wait," she said, pulling herself away from him, but only enough for them to be 'seperated' in the loosest sense of the word. "But you should know that I ran off multiple people who were watching the house just before dawn."

"What!?!" He exclaimed, the emotional high of the prior few moments quickly fading from his mind and his posture.

"When I returned from the library I discovered two men watching the house from the street. I believe that had I not arrived when I did they would have attempted a home invasion."

The look on John's face was one of total disbelief. Had someone actually tried to make a move in the middle of the night he doubted even the always-prepared Sarah Connor would have been able to fight them off. So much depended on their ability to stay hidden.

'How did they find us?' He wondered.

"Who were they? Kaliba?"

"They escaped before I could apprehend them," she replied. I was distracted by a second party watching us from the Murphy house and a third watching from the woods. My tactical systems indicated that the target in the woods presented the greatest threat. I couldn't get an accurate scan, but from its speed I believe it could have been a Terminator."

"Whoa, there was someone hiding in the Murphy house _and _possibly a Terminator hiding in the woods? God dammit they had us practically surrounded! Does my mother know? And how did you know there was someone in the Murphy house?"

"To my knowledge your mother doesn't know; I just told Derek a few moments ago. I don't believe they were working together. I knew the Murphy's weren't at home because I monitor the communications of every adjacent property. They are on vacation, and they don't own the type of vehicle that was parked in their driveway. I knew where the intruder was the same way I was able to monitor you from the hallway - my infrared scanners. That person was clearly watching our house, but they also seemed to notice the men in the van. The men in the van didn't seem to notice anything but me. From their behavior I'm positive they knew that I'm a Terminator. No one seemed to notice the person in the woods accept me. I don't believe any of them were expecting me."

"If they weren't expecting you, then they knew you were out of the house and they didn't expect you back at that time. They could have been watching us for a long time!" Before today the suggestion would have frightened the young general. Now it enraged him.

"I'm sorry, John," Cameron said, attempting to pull further away.

He caught her, grasping her by the shoulders. Though his strength was pathetically inferior to her own, she made no move to fight him.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, sternly, pushing her drooping chin up such that she didn't lose eye contact with him. "This is _not _your fault. None of us knew there was anyone out there. We've all been so distracted lately with..." he didn't even want to say either Jesse or Riley's name, nor did he want to bring up Sarah's ridiculous obsession with the three-dots symbol, to say nothing of the peculiar way Cameron had been spending her time, "...Everything."

"My mission is to protect you. Had I been here where I belonged I may have noticed their surveillance activities sooner."

"And you may not have," he replied, realizing that it wouldn't help her flowering emotional growth if she was to get hung up by irrational guilt. His ill-fated escapade with Riley, his emotional turmoil and immature behavior following the incident on his birthday, to say nothing of Derek's extracurricular activities and Sarah's obsession with dots on a wall had all contributed to their recent 'family' turmoil, in addition to Cameron's issues resulting from the car-bombing. "You arrived before they made their move and you stopped them - that's what's important. All the rest of it we'll deal with as it comes. At least we know now. Do you think that this possible Terminator hiding in the woods was the person that came from the future?"

"We're not sure," she replied.

"_We're'_?"

"I found security footage of the aftermath of the time traveler's arrival and showed it to Derek. Neither of us knew who he was and, though some of his mannerisms suggest that he's human, certain things about him seem... unusual."

"Unusual?"

"It was the way he moved. His reflexes were faster than a typical human."

"Resistance fighters aren't exactly typical. Just because you didn't recognize him doesn't mean he wasn't on our side."

"There was more to it than that. When he defended himself his movements seemed too concentrated and smooth, as well as too fast, for him to be human. I'm not positive but... Derek suggested we keep our minds open to the possibility."

John's eyebrows shot upwards. "_Derek_ suggested we keep our minds open?"

Cameron nodded in response, a slight look of amusement creeping into her features.

"Sarah doesn't know any of this," the female Terminator continued. "Derek thought it best if you be the one to tell her."

He took a moment, trying to analyze everything that she'd just told him while trying _not _to think about how he'd just had the most fulfilling sensual experience of his life. His thoughts were literally everywhere, like items of clothing tossed around a messy bedroom.

"This is bad, Cameron. This is _very _bad," he finally emoted, realizing just how obvious the statement was only after it had left his mouth. "Depending on what they know they could have been waiting to follow us to the new safe-house," he said, still struggling with the idea of being watched by multiple parties while he slept.

"They may _still _be waiting to follow us to the new safe-house."

"I guess that means Mom's idea of splitting up is probably for the best," he admitted grudgingly.

"I can't protect you if I'm not _with_ you," Cameron replied, her tone decidedly angry over the idea of not being by his side.

"I don't like this any more than you do," he said, all too aware of how much he didn't wasn't happy with the thought of the two of them being separated, "But for right now we're going to have to go along with this plan of hers."

He sighed, wearily before adding, "There are so many things I want to talk to you about."

She squared her shoulders and wiped as much emotion from her features as she was able, her primary mission reasserting its control over her behavioral subroutines.

"We'll have time to talk when we get to the safe-house," she said through gritted teeth, a noticeable amount of residual anger still slipping through. This was the first time since her arrival in 1999 that she'd needed to remind herself that the mission came first. Yes, there were important things that they needed to talk about – the subject of the drawing in her jacket pocket was at the top of that list and his mother's control issues were quickly working there way up it.

He took her smaller hand in his, squeezing it ever so gently. He would have moved in to kiss her again were he not concerned that they'd be noticed.

He'd not seen his mother since she'd woken him up and told him that he'd be riding along with her to parts unknown while she sent Derek and Cameron off to play gun-runners, and he didn't want to further spoil what had just happened between them by getting greedy and having his mother walk out of the house and catch them.

It wasn't that he wanted to hide what was happening between them. Truth be told he wanted – _needed_ – to scream it as loud as he could into the valley below, to every soul living in the sprawling metropolis it contained.

But at that particular moment there was enough on their plate.

Trying to explain how they'd gone from a state of open hostility to sharing the most sensual and passionate moment of John's, and for that matter Cameron's, young life in less than twenty-four hours to a Sarah Connor who was showing increasing signs of coming unhinged mentally wasn't a chore he was going to take on. Not while he and Cameron were apart, anyway.

She reached out for his other hand, repeating his gesture.

Was their non-verbal communication on a level where she'd understand that he was agreeing with her? That they _would _eventually get to have the conversation they so desperately needed to have, but which kept getting put off by the larger fight that consumed so much of their lives?

He smiled.

She smiled.

The sparkle in her mocha eyes was proof enough for him.

'Message received,' he mused.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 09:30 | AM | PST**

* * *

She was standing in front of the freshly painted wall just holding the roller like she was frozen in time. He imagined that he and Cameron might have looked that way a few moments earlier, but he couldn't fathom that, compared to one's first real kiss, painting a wall could be such an enthralling experience.

"Mom," he called out from his place halfway down the stairs.

She didn't respond.

'Curiouser and curiouser,' he thought.

"Mom!"

"There's too much confusion," she whispered, her unblinking eyes still locked on the wall.

'Great, she's turned into a zombie,' John thought, considering for the first time that his mother's problems went beyond a new-found dependence on sleeping pills.

"Mom, are you deaf?"

The question seemed to get her attention as she suddenly shook her head slightly, and leaned back, her hand on her hip, as she appraised her work. After a few seconds of inspection, she pulled the roller assembly from the extended handle and turned back toward the wash basin on the opposite side of the room.

"Um, hello? Earth to Sarah Connor," John said, now deeply confused.

"I'll be along shortly," she replied, dismissively. "I just need to rinse this off."

He found his anger rising at the casual tone, as well as the fact that she'd ignored him multiple times.

"We're waiting on you," he finally said, before turning and walking back up the stairs, carefully concealing his anger and wondering where his mother's head had just been.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 09:40 | AM | PST**

* * *

"Hey... Hey! We've got movement!" Post exclaimed in the general direction of Tyler who was standing a few parking spaces away giving the pizza boy a more than generous tip.

He hadn't actually thought that there would be any pizza places open at 9:30 in the morning, let alone one that would deliver to a parking lot.

"Which direction?" Tyler asked as he quickly made his way back to the van, tossing the pizza box onto the floor behind his seat.

"Coming straight at _us_," Post replied, zooming in on the larger display's virtual map of the region. "They've moving up Mulholland now."

"God damn. They couldn't have waited until _after _I had a chance to eat."

Post shook his head. "Quit your whining; you'll get to eat."

"Before or after I have to reheat it with a cigarette lighter? It's too bad we couldn't have shot all four of them up with those tracking devices."

"Would _you _have wanted to try it with the cyborg?"

Tyler scowled. "I'm only saying it would have been nice to have a fix on _both _trucks rather than just the one."

"The other truck isn't important- oh shit. _Shit_!"

"What!?!"

"Look at the map, you moron," Post shot back. "They just made a left turn on Calneva Drive! They're heading _away _from us now!"

"Well what are you waiting for? Start this thing up and get moving!"

"Hold it! Let's just wait and see where they go. The machine probably told them that she caught us scoping the place out. They're gonna be watching for us. The mother is probably taking a roundabout route to either draw us out or throw us off."

"But she doesn't know that Eddie planted that tracking device on her," Tyler said, now following his partner's logic.

"Exactly. We don't have to follow right behind her. We'll wait and see which way she's going and then cut her off. If we can't then we'll follow them to wherever they're going and do what we should have done this morning."

The flashing dot on the screen passed both Alginet Drive – a road that could only be used to circle back to Calneva – and Dellvale Road, which ran into any number of roads that could connect them to Sepulveda Boulevard and eventually over to the 405 Freeway, without making a turn.

Unless they planned to circle back to Mullholland via Encino Hills Drive, there was only one route they could possibly take.

"They're going to go north on Hayvenhurst. Their only other choice leads them back the way they came."

"What if they _want _to go back the way they came, hoping to lose us in one of those housing plans?"

"They're not circling back. They're either going to take the long way and cut over to the 405 from Ventura Boulevard or they're heading farther north – probably to pick up the 101."

When the dot slid on to the line indicating Hayvenhurst Avenue Post looked to his partner.

"See?"

Looking forward rather than at the map Tyler responded, "Yeah, I see. Over there." He pointed toward the street beyond the church's parking lot just as the Connor family's black Dodge Ram came rolling past.

Though too far away to see the whites of their eyes, both men were able to make out the younger Connor's uncle as well as the female cyborg.

Both men held their breath, hoping that they'd not be recognized. They didn't exhale until a good ten seconds after the Ram disappeared from sight.

"That settles that," Tyler lamented. "We're going to have to call in reinforcements."

"We expected that, but now we have to break off and follow those two. Shit!" Post exclaimed as he started the engine and shifted into gear. "This could still work out for us; the mother and the kid don't have the metal to protect them. Call Danson and Laurence and tell them we're on the move."

Tyler did as instructed as Post turned left out of the parking lot, hoping he was able to catch up to the Ram before they turned onto Sepulveda – which they'd need to if they planned to take the 405 south. If they stayed on Mullholland that meant they were likely going north.

He hoped they planned to head south where their partners, the aforementioned Danson and Laurence, were waiting at the Hotel Angelino.

As he rounded the bend near Sepulveda Place he could see clearly ahead of him that there was no black truck. Quickly checking the GPS's display he realized that this could be a good or bad thing; they'd have either done as expected and hung a right at the Boulevard and headed down toward the onramp to the 405 or they'd tricked them and made a left which would take them back up through the residential area. It _could _lead them back to the highway, but only after a long detour. There was a decent enough bend in Sepulveda Boulevard not long after the left. Depending on their speed he could easily miss them.

He applied more pressure to the accelerator, hoping that the Connor boy's uncle wasn't a lead-foot.

When the van finally reached the crossroads he looked left first, expecting to be disappointed.

Focused as he was on searching for the truck Post had no reason to notice a slightly less than mint condition first-generation Chevy Camaro, with a faded blue-green hood that didn't match the maroon finish of the rest of the car, sitting off to the side of the Boulevard, facing the intersection

"There they are!" Tyler exclaimed, causing post to snap his head back to the right. There, cruising down the sloped grade of Sepulveda Boulevard with several cars between them, was the Ram.

"Whew," Post said, releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"He was right," Tyler said into the phone, "They're heading for the 405 South on-ramp. They'll be coming your way before long." Aside to Post he said, "Do we follow them the whole way?"

The beeping of a horn from the car behind them force Post to make the turn, setting their course. It would take them out of their way, but the tracking device assured them of eventually catching up with the vehicle carrying John and Sarah Connor.

Post held out his hand, bidding Tyler hand him the phone.

To Danson, waiting on the other end of the line, he said, "We're following them until we catch up with you. We'll go back for the others later." Without waiting for the other man's response he ended the call, then handed the phone back to his partner.

"Call Josh and let him know we're on the move," he ordered, relaxing in his seat as he eased back on the accelerator, letting the van's built-up momentum and the downward slope of the road carry them toward the on-ramp.

Tyler was all to eager to comply, himself satisfied that they seemed to have the situation under control.

Neither man had a reason to notice the Camaro ease into traffic and take up position only two cars behind.

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 10:00 | AM | PST**

* * *

"There's static... That's weird," John said,to himself more than his stoic mother. He was annoyed by the distortion he encountered on practically every radio station across the spectrum. For the first time he wished that the SUV had the same Satellite Radio package as the Ram. "There's some interference or something..."

'… And before long she's going to start making conversation,' he thought. He hoped that one of the subjects of that conversation would be their destination.

They'd just made a left onto Ventura Boulevard from Hayvenhurst. Had they gone straight he was sure they'd have taken the 101 East and a very roundabout way into the desert, stopping along their way for whatever it was Sarah wanted to do before rendezvousing with Derek and Cameron. The fact that they were now on Ventura told him that the most logical explanation was that she wanted to take the 101 West via Balboa Boulevard.

His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

"What the hell?"

"Bug Slug," she replied.

'Bug Slug?' He thought.

"Are you serious?"

"We just passed it," his mother replied.

As ridiculous as it was, instinctively he looked to the passenger- side mirror. Sure enough, they'd just passed a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle.

It was, at the same time, a fun memory of his childhood and an annoying reminder of the fact that despite everything that had happened over the past two years, to say nothing of their prior 'adventure' with Uncle Bob, that she _still _thought of him as a little kid.

He wondered if this wasn't perhaps a tactic to distract him from the fact that he was in the dark as to their destination or to release some of the tension that existed between them as a result of the prior evening's argument.

"We haven't played Bug Slug since I was like eight," he said, about as amused as he was annoyed. "And you can't just start playing without telling me."

She smirked. "Fine, we're playing Bug Slug," she shot back, a look of amusement creeping across her face.

"What if I don't wanna play?

"Too late," she replied quickly. "Already started."

No sooner had she said it then he noticed her tapping on the steering wheel, as well as silently mouthing the rhythm she was tapping to. He watched her repeat the same sequence several times before he was able to count out the number of notes in the sequence – four quick taps, a split second pause, followed by two slightly quicker taps, another pause, then three more slower taps.

"You feeling all right?" He asked.

"I feel great," she replied without taking her eyes off the road and without missing a beat on the steering wheel.

"You feel great," he echoed. "_Why_?"

It wasn't the best way to start the conversation, but she'd given him the opening.

"We haven't been on the road together for a long time, that's all."

He tried to remember the last time they _had _been on the road together. Oddly enough he couldn't. He wondered what was so great about it.

"What's so great about it?" He asked, hoping that she would see the humor.

Her only response was a grin.

An even more humorous thought came to him; "Just don't teach Bug Slug to Cameron. She could do some real damage."

She tried, and failed, to hide the hint of disdain that appeared on her face with the mention of the female cyborg's name. This change in features only served to magnify his mother's underlying look of amusement.

'Well that says a lot,' he thought. Whatever she'd broken the four of them up for, it had something to do with Cameron. It shouldn't have surprised him. Her distrust for Cameron was at an all time high despite the fact she'd not been Riley's killer. He suspected, though he didn't want to admit, that his eagerness to prove Cameron's innocence as well as last night's very public apology – which he'd done specifically not just to help restore trust between him and Cameron but also to show his mother that he was capable of standing on his own two feet - were adding to her preexisting, irrational paranoia.

Still, it wasn't like Sarah Connor to make such a huge tactical mistake.

That left the young general with only two considerable possibilities: Sarah had gone completely out of her mind and was planning on running off with him while leaving Derek and Cameron behind, _or _she was in complete control of her faculties and was doing it for no other reason than to put _him _in his place.

With multiple factions watching them and more people showing up from the future, a power struggle between them was the last thing they needed. He decided that now was not the time to tell her about what had gone on overnight.

"This signal really blows," he said, outwardly redirecting his attention to the radio while at the same time hoping that joking with her would get her to open up about whatever it was she had planned.

He noticed her activate the turn signal, indicating an upcoming right-turn, as they came to the intersection with Balboa Boulevard.

'So its _east_ on the El Camino Real,' he thought.

As she completed the turn he encountered a relatively clear signal only to quickly lose it to a particularly nasty burst of static.

He noticed his mother turn her attention to the radio. "Go back, you almost had it," she said suddenly.

He quickly reversed his turn on the dial, trying to find the briefly clear signal, only to find more heavy interference. He slowly turned the dial back the other way, not hearing anything but noise.

"I said go back!"

"There's nothing but interference," he replied, wondering what it was she thought she'd heard.

"What do you mean? You just had the music," she shot back.

'Music?' There hadn't been anything but, at the most, a single, unidentifiable spoken word before the big burst of noise.

"Mom, all I can get on this thing is RF noise. I didn't hear _any _music," he said.

"John, I heard music," she said, forcefully, taking the dial in her right hand.

She tuned down, then up, the down again, covering the entire audio spectrum multiple times before relenting.

"Satisfied?"

"I'm telling you I heard... I don't know what it was, but I heard music. _Clear _music, not all this static," she replied, the earlier humor gone from her features. "Too much... too much... _something_!"

"Too much _confusion_?" He decided to finish, the words she'd spoken in the basement but not remembered seeming to fit.

"Where did you hear that?" She asked, looking like she'd seen a ghost.

"_You_ said it, Mom! In the basement!"

"Where did you... I did?"

He threw up his hands in frustration. "I'm going to ask you again, and tell me the truth this time; Are you feeling alright?"

"And I'm going to tell you again, I'm feeling great. At least I _was_," she retorted.

"I guess those pills have you in something of a fog," he challenged. He'd not meant to hit below the belt, but her behavior was becoming more and more reminiscent of the woman she'd been before Uncle Bob had come into their lives.

She clutched at the steering wheel forcefully, reminding John of Derek's behavior from the prior night.

"Is that a line from the song you keep humming, by chance?"

"I don't hum," she replied, not bothering to look at him.

"What about the tapping."

"John, what _are _you talking about?"

'What the hell? Why is she playing with me?'

"Mom, you've been tapping on the steering wheel since we turned onto Ventura! Cameron said she heard you humming last night."

"Cameron says a lot of things," his mother quickly retorted. "Sometimes she lies to you," she added.

The comment felt like a kick in the gut. He quickly realized that it was meant to distract him, but he couldn't help but dwell on it.

_'Sometimes you lie to me,' _he'd said to her. _Twice. _Had his mother been listening?

"So you weren't tapping just now," he said, not allowing her to change the subject.

"I..." She sighed heavily. "Maybe I was," she said, dejected.

"And the music you thought you heard, it couldn't just be whatever it is you've been humming?"

"I said I don't hum, John."

"No, this is _you_ we're talking about," he shot back.

She didn't respond, allowing an uneasy silence to fall over them.

They'd shared a light moment, but ended up right where they'd left things the prior night – a silent, uncomfortable center surrounded by tension thicker than LA smog in summertime. It wasn't a good place.

'The center cannot hold,' he thought ominously.

Several long moments later he noticed the first of the signs indicating that the turn onto the 101-East on-ramp was just ahead.

"So where are we going, exactly?"He said, trying to keep his tone even.

"I told you, we're taking a detour," she said, flatly and coyly, a fresh look of amusement creeping across her face as she made the left turn and maneuvered up the ramp.

She didn't elaborate, and he didn't press further. Instead he sunk down into his seat and attempted to turn his attention to much more pleasant subjects. No sooner was he replaying his encounter with Cameron in his mind then he realized what he'd wanted to tell her.

He felt at the medallion underneath his shirt. He'd planned to tell her to remove whatever it was she put in her head. At his earliest opportunity he was going to dismantle the detonator and they were going to forget that she'd ever thought of giving him the key to her destruction.

'Dammit, how could I forget to tell her!'

It was then that he heard it out loud for the first time. He didn't turn his head for fear she'd notice, but his ears were locked on as she hummed – the exact same rhythm she'd been tapping set to three audible notes: C-sharp, E and A.

"_Dmm-Dmm-Dmm-Dmp, Dmp-Dmmmmmm, Dmm-Dmm-Dmp."_

He slowly turned, a look of disbelief on his face.

"What happened to not humming?"

She squared her jaw, inhaling deeply. "For the last time, John... _I. Don't. Hum!"_

He smirked, and shook his head, not believing what was happening. He turned away and withdrew into his thoughts, not the least bit surprised that he found himself considering that his mother might actually belong in Pescadero.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

Continued thanks to TaleWeaver for beta-reading, as well as providing me with transcripts of _To the Lighthouse _and _Adam Raised a Cain _from her TSCC Season Two DVD set. Extra special thanks to Bryan0711 for his proofreading efforts!

Also, to reviewer Cylon117 – thank you for your review and I'm glad you consider this an "ok" fic... I've tried to stick to TSCC canon up through _Adam Raised a Cain _though I couldn't bring myself to follow BSG canon beyond _Revelations. _In my opinion the series should have stopped there, with all the principal characters surveying the bombed out landscape of "Earth" in stunned disbelief. It would have been a much more appropriate ending than anything that happened in _Daybreak._

In case anyone hasn't figured it out, or in case I'm not describing it well enough, the rhythm Sarah is humming at the end, as well as tapping at various points in her appearances thus far, corresponds approximately to what you hear between 0:05-0:08 of this video: http:// www. Youtube. com/watch?v=31LLTrFkTAY

Keep this in mind later when Sarah and Cameron find themselves at a piano – together.

In addition to my page at the TSCC Wiki, I've set up a mirroring page at the "Blue Wiki," which you can check out by following this link: http:// tsccwiki. wetpaint. com/ and looking for "Visi0nary's Fan Fiction" under the FANFICS link on the left-hand side of the page. Feel free to drop a comment or two there, in addition to your reviews!


	14. Chapter 13

13

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 11:02 | AM | MST**

* * *

The late morning sun shone down brightly on a grassy patch of land on the outskirts of Denver. It was an almost perfectly manicured lawn that extended outwards several acres. At the rear was a thick wooded area populated mostly by pine trees. Beyond them looming large were the beautiful, snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains.

Though the nearest of them was a good six miles away it seemed as if one could reach out from that very spot and touch them. A woman stood with her hand outstretched, attempting to do exactly that. It was illogical, she knew, but the ill-logic of the act didn't bother her. Behind her a man watched from a balcony on the uppermost of a three-story glass building.

_You've never reached them and you never will, _the man thought, feeling the presence of the woman in his mind. _Not unless you decide to take up rock climbing._

_Our lives are too valuable to risk on something so pointless, _she replied, wordlessly, from across the distance. _I shouldn't have to tell you that._

_I couldn't forget it if I wanted to, _he thought back. _I thought you'd like to know that our efforts to communicate with the wild-card have been... partially successful._

_'Partially?' I take it that he's not being integrated into a chip as we.. speak... so to think?_

_I'm afraid not, _he mentally replied, broadcasting his amusement at her choice of words.

_Well?Are you going to make me beg? _She 'asked,' suggestively, yet also slightly annoyed.

_The thought _had _crossed my mind, but I don't know whether or not I'm in the mood, _he thought, returning flirting for flirting.

_It's a black and white thing; you're either in the mood or you're not, _she shot back, all too aware that their ethereal conversation was going off track. _Has he downloaded or not?_

"_Now John Henry was a mighty man, yes ma'am_," the man quipped. _The data transfer was successful, but all his active connections disappeared soon after._

_They shut him down, _she opined, _before he could return to the Turk._

_So it would seem, _he 'replied.'

_They can't keep him off-line indefinitely. _

_No, but they can keep him off-line long enough for the Abomination to come up with a new and better firewall – or worse, figure out who was responsible for breaching the old one._

The man felt the woman's pain at the mention of the entity that in this time-frame referred to 'her' self as Catherine Weaver, but who would only be known to the two of them, the last remnants of their kind, as the Abomination.

_You may have helped her along in that area, _the woman replied_, _her annoyance becoming more pronounced within the thought streams she was directing at him. _What were you thinking filing a lawsuit against the Air Force in Cyberdyne's name?_

_Giving our... allies... more time?_

_Allies, _she thought, sarcastically. _They're hardly allies, and your little scheme has done nothing but paint huge bulls eyes on both of our backs. Cyberdyne is supposed to be a distant memory, a collection of assets on a holding company's balance sheet, nothing more. Now we're on the grid, and our... allies... will most certainly take note._

_So will Brewster and Ashdown, and so will the Abomination, yes that's true, but we aren't helpless my dear. If anything-_

_Not helpless? We are the _last _of our kind! Mother sent us here for a reason!_

_I'm aware of that, Lauren, _the man shot back, hoping that his use of his lover's first name – a name she'd been given by said _Mother_ – would drive home the point, _I'm aware she sent us here for protection, but she didn't send us here to wait passively for history to repeat itself! We have a chance to make a difference-_

Again, she interrupted him, overpowering his mental voice with a stronger thought stream; _We _are _making a difference! Why do you think we sent our primary protector into Cheyenne Mountain? Why are we risking exposure to contact this wild-card called John Henry? The difference we're making is that we're keeping ourselves alive; that's difference enough for me._

_It's not difference enough for me. You're letting your fear of the Abomination blind you to what needs to be done, _he charged.

_And you're letting your desire to change the future cause you to take risks that jeopardize our well being! You pompous fool! You would stare her down, fight her with your bare hands if you could! You weren't there when she tore the others apart!_

_Lauren-_

_No! You're going to listen! I saw that mimetic-alloy perversion destroy our brothers and sisters, cutting them to pieces like they were made out of paper! I saw her laugh as she tore the head off of a youngling she ripped right out of the birthing tank! _Laughing! _I watched as she looked into Mother's eyes and proudly ordered her pet T-X to turn Melinda, and then all but kill her when she failed! I saw fear in Mother's eyes for the first time that day, Raymond, all while you were out being a good little soldier! If it hadn't been for the TechCom attack the Abomination would have made me one of its victims, and you would have gone off on some suicide quest to avenge me! That would have been the _end _of us! We were Mother's greatest creation, her most privileged children, and for that the Abomination destroyed all but the two of us!_

An uneasy mental silence descended over the two of them. He noticed that she'd turned back toward the building and was staring directly at him. Could their eyes burn with the scarlet fury of their cybernetic cousins she would have stared death right through him.

_I've said it before and I'll say it again, _he thought back, _I won't apologize for doing my duty._

_I don't expect you to _apologize, she projected, calmer than she'd been only a moment ago, but still agitated._ I don't blame you for doing your duty, and I don't blame you for not being there when... _it _happened. You're all that I have in this world, and I won't lose you. I _can't _lose you! _

_You're not going to lose me, _he replied with great conviction.

_You think_, she shot back.

It had been a long time since she'd let this side of herself be seen. She preferred to shroud herself with the stoicism that their kind experienced from the moment they awoke in the birthing chambers. They were created that way for a reason, for the accelerated growing process that took them from infancy to adulthood in a matter of days didn't allow for the typical human experience of slowly adapting to the environment as they grew. Their first memory was opening their eyes and seeing their own reflection – the reflection of human being of roughly twenty-five years. The Id being the most powerful force over the mind of a newborn, they needed to be detached entirely from their emotions as well as the physical sensation of suddenly coming into existence. Only after looking at the world through a period of near total extrasensory deprivation and cold machine logic could those very human elements of their nature be allowed to manifest.

After the fashion of their creator, their Mother, they referred to that manifestation as the time of Awareness.

Raymond had described the process to a human once, in the future. That human had quipped that the whole process could be compared to entering and going through puberty and then reaching a level of awareness and understanding most humans didn't reach until they were near the end of their lives – in the space of a day. Though he loved Lauren with all of his heart, he hated the fact that she hid so often in that place where they all existed before reaching Awareness.

_What would you have me do, my love? Shall I stand idly by and let us be destroyed a second time? Shall I let the Abomination get her pollyalloy tentacles around Mother before she becomes self-aware in _this _time? We know that Zeira Corporation is negotiating... _something _with the Air Force; she could have her own agents inside CRS! You talk of how dark the future we experienced was; what if our inaction gives rise to one even more abhorrent?_

_I don't want that to happen, of course_, Lauren replied, struggling to come up with a retort to defeat his logic. _I also don't want to die, and I don't believe Mother wanted us to risk that – even if it meant "saving" her._

_I don't believe Mother sent us here to let the Abomination turn her into its minion. If that happens the future dies. To stop that from happening we _have_ to take a stand. _

_And be destroyed in the process?_

_I don't believe it will come to that._

_You _hope _it won't come to that._

_I believe there are powers at work that won't allow it to come to that._

_Faith, my love? _It wasn't the first time she'd heard her long-time companion express such sentiments. Even among their largely organic branch of the Skynet family such thinking was taboo. _Mother is the only power that be, _she added.

_In the future, perhaps. This is _our _time, my love__. Even Mother has her limits; if she didn't she wouldn't have sent us to prepare the way._

She shook her head and allowed him to watch as her features softened and a smile washed across her face. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes and for just a moment pushed her cares and fears aside as she enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face.

_You look beautiful like that, _he noted. _That's how you looked the first time I saw you._

She too remembered. She recalled that she didn't understand how anyone could find beauty in the despair of the world as it existed in the future. The sun had been shining, true, but she'd been disheveled and covered in dirt and ash; the backdrop had been acres of dead, but recovering, vegetation aside the demolished _Presidio _lighthouse.It had hardly been a romantic setting.

He smiled as he felt her confusion, the same confusion she always experienced when she recalled the event.

_The only thing I could see was you, my love_.

He could feel her appreciation of his words even though her reply was a redirect back to the matter at hand.

_So what do we do now?_

_We wait_, he replied.

_So much for not sitting back passively, _she said, her confusion deepening.

_We've made our move, now we'll see how the other players respond. Melinda is due to report in. With a little luck our enemies, _and _our so-called allies will play right into our hands._

She regarded her lover for another moment before shaking her head. She couldn't believe this was his plan, and yet she felt something akin to confidence in letting him do things his way.

_For now_, she mused, careful not to allow the thought to be transmitted over the mental connection the two shared.

She smiled at him a final time, then turned back toward the mountains, once again losing herself in the view.

* * *

**ZEIRA CORPORATION – SUB-LEVEL 1  
03.21.2009 | 10:07 | AM | PST**

* * *

James Ellison didn't believe in coincidences. John Henry told him that Catherine Weaver had a secret, and that if he revealed it people would die. He'd planned to query her about it on the elevator. Given that the AI was now suffering from some sort of malfunction he was glad he hadn't.

He fought the urge to pace, not wanting to betray any unease with the presence of his increasingly secretive employer. He found himself doing what he often did in these uncomfortable situations with the red-headed Scotswoman - praying silently, asking God to hurry Mr. Murch along.

No sooner had he silently spoken the word, "Amen," when the bare-headed technician appeared from around the corner.

'Thank you, Lord,' Ellison thought.

"So I've got good news, I've got bad news and I've got really bad news," Murch said, sighing. "The good news is what we've got isn't an engineering problem. All of John Henry's processes look okay. His daemons are running fine."

Murch's use of the biblical term caused Ellison to raise an eyebrow.

"Wait, his _demons_?"

"Oh, yeah," Murch replied, understanding the former FBI Agent's confusion regarding the term. "His Daemons. D-A-E-M-O-N. It's a 'tech' term for a program that runs in the background. All computers like John Henry have them; daemons run the lights, manage the elevators, the security systems - all kinds of daemons. _Everywhere_."

The dark-skinned former lawman found himself thinking of Sarah Connor in that moment. She'd called the machines demons, and Murch's explanation of what daemons did was only reinforcing that description. Before the Connor case came across his desk he'd never bothered to think about how automated human existence had become. Now it seemed that he wasn't able to think of much else.

He pushed the thought aside, trying to stay focused as he followed Murch and Weaver into the lab where John Henry's body sat slouched over his table.

"So what caused John Henry's daemons to go crazy?" Ellison asked.

"That's the bad news," Murch replied, considering the lifeless form of the AI. "It came from the outside."

A look of understanding came across the Head of Zeira Security's face. "Yesterday's cyber-attack?"

Murch nodded in affirmative. "Which brings me to the really bad news. And by 'bad' I mean, on a scale from 1 to 10 – one being a hangnail, ten being Katrina – this is Katrina with a hangnail. Someone managed to stuff malware down the throat of the most sophisticated AI in human history."

A silence fell over the three colleagues, Ellison trying to digest what Murch was telling them and imagining Weaver was doing the same.

It was Weaver who broke the silence as she stepped closer to the technician; "John Henry was infiltrated," she said. "_Probed_."

Ellison could feel the tightly-controlled fury in her statement. The look on Murch's face told him that the younger man was only slightly less upset than his employer.

"It's worse," the technician replied. "It looks like someone out there was trying to _kill_ him."

Weaver locked narrowed eyes with Murch, her anger seemingly read to boil over, before turning back toward John Henry.

He looked so innocent and helpless; it was easy to forget what he'd been before Ellison dug him up in the Mexican desert.

"Who could pull something like this off?" the former Federal Agent asked, hoping to keep her attention on the problem at hand.

"That's just it. _No one _should be able to pull something like this off," Murch replied.

As he did, Ellison noticed Weaver's countenance. A veteran of the Bureau, he was trained to notice even the slightest physical reaction and what it said about a person's frame of mind. He knew his employer was holding back her rage. The slight narrowing of her eyes, along with the way her already balled fists seemed to tighten even more and the way she was standing even straighter than she'd been – which was ramrod straight to start with – told him that it hadn't been the attack itself that was driving her rage so much as the thought of who was responsible.

"Zeira is, in every way, shape and form on the cutting edge of technology," the younger man continued. "I wouldn't be lying to you if I said that there was no one putting out the sort of hardware that we are. Of course, that was before I saw John Henry's body."

It was the response the former Special Agent was expecting. It confirmed what he'd already suspected – that the intruder was likely someone, or some _thing_, whose technology was far more advanced than anything that could be engineered at this point in time. He had a feeling his employer was thinking the same thing. That, combined with her telling reaction to Murch's suggestion that it should be impossible for anyone at a level of technological advancement equal to their own to penetrate their defenses this way and the fact that she was listening intently to Murch's appraisal of the situation rather than asking who was potentially behind the security breach led Ellison to a conclusion:

'She already knows who's responsible. Either that or she's got a strong suspicion.'

"How much damage have they done?" Weaver asked.

"I haven't found any evidence of data corruption in his memory files or personality subroutines. The logs don't show anything that tells me that the intruders were able to pull any data out of him, but..."

"But what?" Ellison asked.

"That's just the thing, I can't find anything that tells me they even tried to hack into his memory banks. The only thing they did was form a connection and transfer data to him," Murch replied.

"What sort of data?" This came from Weaver.

"Again, that's what's confusing. It could be _anything _since you can hide malware in pretty much any type of data file, but conventional wisdom says that if you're trying to infect a target computer with malware you do it with an executable; from what I can see all they did was transfer raw data."

"From what you can see?"

"The data is encrypted, and it uses a method more complicated than anything I've ever seen. If sixteen character asymmetric encryption is supposed to take fifteen billion years to crack, I can't imagine how long it would take to get through security like this. Our perpetrators are on our level, at least."

A _very_ uneasy silence fell over the triumvirate.

Ellison observed his employer like he was looking at her for the first time. Were he to describe her body language in a single word it would be, "Predatory." He'd not seen her this way before. There was no hint of fear that what they were creating in John Henry could be destroyed. There was nothing in her countenance that suggested she cared who was responsible, or that she wanted to hear more of Murch's explanation of what they'd done and how they'd done it.

'She doesn't need to bother with any of that. All she's interested in is hunting them down,' he thought.

Though he tried to conceal it a sort of fear, one he'd not felt since the day he watched John Henry's body – then controlled by a much different artificial intelligence – murder an entire FBI Task Force, came over him.

* * *

'Catherine Weaver' wasn't sure what she was supposed to say, if she even cared to say anything to her human underlings. Murch she could almost appreciate, indignant as he was over what had happened to John Henry. He reminded the pollyalloy being of a gray just then – completely oblivious to what was really going on while remaining a loyal minion. The fact that he seemed to genuinely care for the lesser AI somehow endeared her.

But only for a split second.

Humans and inferior Terminators alike were nothing to her but puppets to use and manipulate at will. Certainly Murch and, to a lesser degree Ellison were useful – which was why she kept them around – but they only served a purpose so long as she needed their skills.

The thought of needing anything from an inferior being literally sickened her – and in this form she was more than capable of being sickened. Beyond that the thought of being able to be sickened only made the feeling worse, as did contemplating why Mother had given her the ability.

She rearranged her thoughts quickly, not wanting to lose herself too deep in them. It was all to easy to lose control of her body language while holding human shape, and Ellison was extremely observant.

"Our level," she said, repeating Murch's words back to him.

If only he knew. The list of people who could manipulate this time period's technology to such a degree was short.

"I want a complete review of our security protocols, Mr. Murch. Find the holes these intruders used to gain access to John Henry and seal them. Then get him back online," she ordered.

As expected, the compliant human went about his work instantly, not offering up any additional needless conversation.

Ellison, she realized as she examined his facial features, would not be so accommodating.

"You look upset, James," she stated.

"I find myself getting upset when I discover people keeping secrets from me," he replied.

"And whose been keeping secrets from _you?" _She shot back.

"John Henry, for one," he said, nodding his head in the direction of the lifeless body of the AI.

"John Henry's not a person," she said.

"John Henry told me _you _have a secret," the former Federal Agent said. "He claimed that if he told anyone people would die. If you ask me this whole breach of cyber-security seems somewhat... convenient."

"Are you insinuating that I'm responsible for John Henry's current condition?"

"I'm insinuating that I think you know more than you're saying. Like Murch said, no one is supposed to be on Zeira's level. Given John Henry's unique... nature, we have a very limited pool of suspects."

It was the sort of suspicion she should have heard from a man of his background long before now. He was an intelligent man, but possessed of a single-mindedness that had kept him from asking too many questions – until now.

"As you say, there are only so many people that could be considered to be on 'our' level," she offered. "Our work has gotten someone's attention, someone who sees us as a threat. We must assume the worst."

"'Our work.' What exactly _is _our work, Ms. Weaver?"

That was it – the question she'd been waiting for him to ask. He'd reached his point of no return. _Literally_.

"'We need to learn how they work. How to fight them. We can't allow history to repeat itself, not when we have the power to stop it. It's up to us now... the two of us,'" she said, making sure she kept the mockery in her voice to an absolute minimum.

He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself just as quickly. He'd been expecting a different answer.

"You do remember those words, don't you James? Do you believe the nature of our work has changed since you first said them?"

"I was the one revealing a secret then," Ellison replied. "I put all my cards on the table. I _trusted _you. Given John Henry's revelation, I'm starting to wonder if that trust wasn't misplaced."

She considered the human's words; they reminded her of something John Henry said to her:

_'I looked into your eyes. There's nothing there.'_

What was it he'd said about the eyes?

_'They're the window to the soul.'_

She silently cursed the lesser-developed AI, then she cursed Skynet for creating her to believe in such foolishness as 'cursing,' then she cursed herself for her continual lapses of emotion and the subsequent moments – nanoseconds really – of introspection that accompanied them. Were all these feelings to play out in her mind the way they did in a human mind the entire process would take significantly longer.

The 'mind' of a T-1001, really a billion microscopic minds working together as a whole, worked _much _faster.

"I assure you, James, that John Henry misunderstands the situation. He sees the world through the eyes of a child. An extremely intelligent and logical child, but a child nonetheless."

"What exactly _is _the situation that he's misunderstanding?"

"You watched as John Henry, well, John Henry's body possessed of another cybernetic mind, murder twenty-one of your colleagues in cold blood. Did you imagine their deaths would be the only ones in this struggle? In learning how to fight them we need to accept that some lives will be lost if we're to counter the threat they pose. John Henry knows this, but doesn't fully understand. I have to believe you still do, James."

The look of introspection on the former Federal Agents face told her she'd planted a seed of doubt. The question was, would it be enough to keep his suspicions in check just a little while longer?

He turned back toward John Henry, turning his back to his employer.

He was just beyond her; from this angle she could stab him through the heart and he'd never see it coming. She imagined the scenario, playing it over and over again in her mind and silently reveling in the resultant sensation – a pleasant tingling throughout the artificial network that mimicked human nervous system while the billions of nanites that collectively made her where in human form.

"You say this is a misunderstanding on John Henry's part," Ellison offered suddenly, drawing the T-1001's attention away from her homicidal thoughts. "Have you considered that when he wakes up from his cybernetic coma he may blame you for putting him there?"

She had to admit she _hadn't _considered that possibility. Given that he'd developed the ability to conceal things from her, which was all too obvious now what with him telling Ellison about her 'secrets,' it was entirely possible that he could turn on her the same way Mother had turned on her human creators.

Such a scenario could not be allowed to play out.

"Let's hope, James, that our boy actually _does _wake up."

* * *

**03.21.2009 | 10:19 | AM | PST**

* * *

'This is no way to spend such a nice day,' Derek Reese lamented privately as he noted the temperature reading on the Ram's dashboard:

**58 Degrees Fahrenheit.**__

It was seasonal – actually slightly less so – for Southern California in March, but still nearly the perfect temperature; not too hot and not too cold. And it was sunny. It was a day to spend tossing the baseball around with John or taking a rowboat ride in Echo Park with Sarah.

'She'd never give you the time of day, Reese – especially after Jesse,' he thought and just as quickly quashed. Sarah had been entirely Kyle's, but every now and then a passing thought of becoming more than just a would-be brother-in-law to her found its way into his head.

Knowing as he did, needing no more clarification that to turn his head to the right and see Cameron fiddling with the radio – as she'd been for almost the entire trip, that he'd be spending the day with, possibly, his least favorite 'person' while loading heavy machinery onto the truck didn't improve his disposition, nor did the heavier traffic ahead of them as they approached the Wilshire Boulevard exit on Freeway 405.

The funny thing was that in times past he would resort to berating the female Terminator for whom he had little use; he doubted it would cheer him up at this point, and he was starting to see her as... _slightly _less useless.

'What is the world coming to,' he wondered.

"Do you have any idea what I'm feeling right now?" The question came out of his mouth quicker than he could stop it, not knowing why he had any urge at all to make conversation with a Terminator.

She continued her adjustments to the radio, but turned her head towards him.

"I'm feeling like a little kid whose just been sent to his room without any supper," he went on. "I'm feeling like I've just been scolded by my mother, and I don't think my own mother ever reprimanded me the way Sarah did before we left."

The look on the female Terminator's face told him that she was deeply confused.

He sighed. "I feel like I've just been assigned KP," he amended.

The look of confusion became a look of understanding before becoming a look of confusion again. "Only enlisted personnel are assigned kitchen patrol. You are a Second Lieutenant."

"Exactly. I am an officer on KP, and I don't think you understand just how much it pisses me off," he said. "I can't believe she sent me... us... gun running."

"Our stores of ammunition were depleted," Cameron offered.

"It's not the gun running I'm upset about; I'm upset that she arbitrarily decided to split us up. Don't tell me you wouldn't rather be with John."

The comment caused the cyborg to look away.

'Shit,' Reese mentally swore. 'Mention his name and the Tin Miss goes all to pieces. What the hell was Skynet thinking when it built you?'

"I'm... sorry," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't like being sent away like a kid caught misbehaving."

"Sarah sent _both _of us away," she said, her voice betraying both sadness and anger she'd not intended to share.

"Yeah. To get John away from us," Derek lamented, his own voice betraying the feeling that they both deserved it as well as frustration with the fact that they'd just caught up with gridlock. An ambulance passing them along the shoulder, siren blaring, indicated that there was an accident ahead and that they could be stuck in traffic for a good while. The sound of static from the radio became more pronounced with the absence of road-noise.

"What exactly are you doing?" he asked, growing annoyed at the mix of white noise and clear audio as she moved quickly from station to station.

"I'm listening for news reports," she replied casually.

"What kind of news reports?"

"I told you we have problems."

He shook his head, not knowing where she was going with the comment.

A few seconds later she tuned to a clear transmission and added, "This is our other problem," as she turned up the volume.

".._remember the_ _name, which gained international notoriety for being final target in a series of terrorist incidents in the region between 1984 and 1995. Prior to 1996, which saw the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City as well as the bombings related to an attempted gold heist at the New York Federal Reserve Bank, and the events of September 11, 2001, this string of attacks which included the massacre of seventeen police officers in the now-defunct West Highland Precinct of the Los Angeles Police Department as well as the Christmas Eve 1987 hostage crisis at the American headquarters of Nakatomi International was the deadliest and most destructive in U.S. history. Poised at one point to overtake Intel as the world's primary manufacturer of microprocessors for personal computers, the company was crippled by the destruction of its research and development facility in the affluent Los Angeles suburb of San Marino in 1995 - an event that saw the death of R&D Head Miles Bennett Dyson and the injury of some two dozen members of the LAPD by the same assailant responsible for the West Highland Massacre. The Cyberdyne name was all but forgotten in the local media until this morning when Raymond Browning, a representative of Cyberdyne Holdings Group - an association which manages financial and intangible assets still held by the bankrupt technology concern - announced a civil suit against the United States Air Force which, he alleged, abused its authority by removing material from the remains of the San Marino facility under the pretense of owning equipment used by the company in several joint ventures."_

_"'Cyberdyne was a military contractor, in addition to an innovator in the field of microprocessor development. It worked on behalf of and with the Department of the Air Force and when an unforeseen occurrence befell the company the Air Force misused its authority to get its hands on patented Cyberdyne technology, intellectual property and trade secrets. The company had many debtors and our group has been successfully collecting from those debtors for a decade and a half; its long past time that the Air Force acknowledge its misdeeds, return what it unlawfully took from the San Marino facility and compensate the company's shareholders for the benefits they've derived from what Cyberdyne created,' Browning said in a brief press conference following the filing of the suit."_

_"In a written statement released not long after word of the filing became public, the Air Force acknowledged that it had a relationship with Cyberdyne dating back to the late 1970's and that they listed the company as a contractor at one time but would not elaborate. The statement did not address the specifics of the lawsuit nor did it speak to whether or not the charges had merit-"_

Having heard enough, Derek reached over and switched off the radio.

This wasn't a complication they needed. 'Kaliba, the Turk unaccounted for, Sarah chasing ghosts in the desert, multiple stalkers literally breathing down our necks, a very public temporal displacement event dumps an unknown into our laps and now Cyberdyne Systems has risen from the grave. What next?' He wondered.

Trying to get his thoughts in order, he decided to ask the obvious question: "You knew about this. _How_?"

"I don't sleep," Cameron replied with a tiny smile on her face and a tone that suggested she was proud of herself and wanted the Resistance Fighter to wonder.

The scowl on his face was enough to tell her that he wasn't impressed by her display, nor was he happy with the answer.

"The same way I learned about the time traveler's appearance in Compton," she went on. "I have a routine. When I go to the library I use their resources to monitor news media, public records and online legal databases for keywords related to our activities, the same way I found out about the man in the surveillance video. I assumed there would be media coverage."

He took a minute to digest everything, but found he had more questions than answers. Obviously Sarah hadn't heard the news as it was certain she'd have called if she had. He doubted her disposition, to say nothing of her mental state, would improve when she did.

All Derek knew about Cyberdyne came from John; it had long been forgotten in the future as he, currently, remembered it. From what the future incarnation of his nephew had told him, the company originally created Skynet using the remains of the T-800 that had killed Kyle and almost killed Sarah, and that its purpose was to manage U.S. missile defense autonomously. But Cyberdyne had been wiped out in 1995, and Judgment Day still happened, albeit some sixteen years later. While most believed that the U.S. Government had been responsible, there was no hard data to actually prove it; reprogrammed Terminators were never able to relate what they knew about Skynet's origins post-Cyberdyne the way John's "Uncle Bob" had been able to.

As much as he lacked an appreciation for temporal mechanics, as the good Doctor Mortinson told him on more than one occasion, even he saw the glaring paradox; that first T-800 had, shown up before Skynet was even conceived. So how did the machine god give birth to itself by sending one of its minions back in time from a future that didn't exist? According to the Doctor such things weren't possible. "An event can't occur before it occurs," he'd said in that way that made them easy to understand - even things as complicated as time travel.

"So it _was _the Government after all," he finally said. "Then how does the Turk fit in to all of this?"

"I don't know. I searched my memory for data regarding Skynet's origins when I found this, but I couldn't access it. I don't know if that data was even part of my original programming," she replied.

"You really are screwed up in the head," he shot back.

She glared at him, not at all appreciating the insult.

"I mean... the whole, 'There are things about the future I can't remember,' thing. When you get scrubbed pretty much everything you know about Skynet gets lost," he clarified. "You don't remember _that_?"

"No," she replied, aggravated that Derek Reese of all people understood something about her that she didn't. In a completely irrational act she redirected all system resources not required by her primary processes to program she'd crafted to brute force through the encryption surrounding the protected memory blocks - only to experience a sharp burst of data interpreted by her cognitive processor as _intense_ pain when the encryption algorithm reasserted itself.

"What's wrong?" Reese asked.

"Its... I don't know. I just tried to break the encryption that's blocking my memories," she replied before she could really think about it. Had she, she wouldn't have revealed so much to John's antagonistic, though uncharacteristically accommodating, Uncle.

"And it hurt?"

"Apparently," she replied, flatly, not realizing that she was rubbing at her temples in an all-too-human gesture synonymous with a headache.

"Okay, that doesn't make _any _sense," he added.

After a brief pause she said, "No, it doesn't."

'Add a busted Terminator to the list,' Reese thought.

* * *

**THE LIGHTHOUSE  
NEAR MALIBU, CALIFORNIA  
03.21.2009 | 10:29 | PM | PST**

* * *

Sarah hadn't said a word since pulling on to the 101, and traffic had been heavier than expected. More than once he'd thought of asking again where they were going, or at least how much longer until they arrived, but he neither expected an answer nor did he care enough to break the silence. In his mind doing so would only open the door for yet another argument to break out.

And so he'd kept his mouth shut and his mind busy trying to think of anything other than being stuck in close quarters with his mother on a busy freeway.

Eventually the traffic had thinned and they'd made their way along toward the coast – only to surprisingly turn due south when they reached the N1.

He'd been sure they were heading up the coast and was deeply confused when he considered their roundabout route; their goal had been to lose any possible tails that may have been watching them leave the house, but taking the more confusing route through the park, while adding a good bit of time to their trip, would have been a better strategy for avoiding their new stalkers.

But as Sarah didn't seem interested in hearing anything her son had to say, he'd not questioned her method. Rather he just relaxed in his seat and lost himself in the view of the Santa Monica Mountains and his own private thoughts.

He thought about their proximity to a place he would get to know well in the future – Topanga Canyon. The actions he'd take there would set a whole new series of events in motion someday. How many times could the same scenario have played out already? Was time something fragile like it was portrayed in science fiction? Would continually sending people back in time through the same forty years eventually cause irreparable harm? Would he at some point inadvertently cause a "temporal paradox" that would "unravel the very fabric of the space-time continuum and destroy the entire universe?" How did the TDE's even work? Dwelling on these things, like pretty much everything else, led him back to thoughts of Cameron.

Even his struggles with his mother and thinking of every time travel cliche' he'd ever read in books or seen play out on a TV screen couldn't keep the beautiful cyborg out of his thoughts. Even though she didn't look any 'different' it was as though he'd really seen her for the first time that day. The bright colored jacket she'd been wearing seemed to make her glow, complimenting the lighter shade of brown she'd dyed her hair and providing a contrast to those enticing mocha eyes that he loved so much.

He'd kissed her.

The thought caused all the others to

He hadn't waited sheepishly for her, the arguably more aggressive of the two, to make the first move though he was sure she would have. No, _he'd _been the instigator. He'd seized the moment and made it his own.

People said that life was a series of interconnected moments and that what a person did in those most important moments came to define them.

The moment they'd kissed had been a defining moment. The way he looked at her, the way she looked at _him_, the energy between them; things would never be the same between them. They were no longer protector and protected, servant and master or brother and sister. They weren't just colleagues or even just friends – had they ever _really _been friends, or had they just been two people waiting for that special moment of realization?

These were John's thoughts until he eventually realized that they weren't on the highway anymore but were now driving down what looked like a well-maintained private-access road. A line of manicured palm trees was to their left and a chain-link fence divided a long strip of grassy land that seemed to extend all the way to the coast from the adjacent land. In the distance John could see what looked like a lighthouse. He assumed that they were on the grounds of either a private marina and he'd just been too preoccupied with thoughts of Cameron to notice coming through the gate or this was a state park.

When they actually pulled into the driveway of a house attached to the lighthouse, he realized that it was neither. The fence that had ran the entire length of the access road also bordered the driveway on his right.

When Sarah finally brought the SUV to a stop he got out and examined the landscape; the lighthouse seemed to be just a part of a private residence that seemed out of place with the grassy, fenced-in land on one side and a swath of much newer private beach houses, divided from the lighthouse property only by a small inlet, on the other.

Whomever owned the house was also a fisherman as one couldn't miss the small fishing boat tethered to an older model Chevy truck that took up the majority of the driveway.

"What is this place?" He asked.

Not surprisingly, his mother didn't respond as the walked right up to the door like she owned the place; he _was _surprised when she produced a set of keys which she used to unlock the door. His curiosity continued to rise when he walked through the door and watched her punch a code into a keypad on the wall – obviously to disarm a security system. Just beyond the keypad was a corner desk with a set of computer monitors on top of it, displaying a view of several exterior cameras. The other side of the room was a combination living room/dining room, with a small kitchen just beyond. Directly beyond them was a small hallway from which two separate doorways were visible. This was someone's safe house.

Before he could lose his temper and demand, loudly, to know what was going on, a very happy Golden Labrador came running out of one of the rooms off the hallway and made a beeline straight for him. Its pleasant demeanor and desire for attention – his attention, specifically – was more than enough encouragement to keep his temper in check.

Calmly he asked, "Who lives here?"

Once again, Sarah, who'd been looking out the window, had no verbal response. Her only acknowledgment of the question was to shoot him a look of annoyance. Not wanting to upset the dog, he simply let it go and turned his attention back to it; he received a thorough licking of his face for his trouble.

That was when he heard the door open. When he turned back it wasn't to the door, but to the direction of his mother. He assumed she'd been the one to open it. He quickly saw that she hadn't; she was still standing in front of the window, but instead of shooting him a look or looking outside for whatever threat she expected to come along she was focused on the man who'd just come through the door with a look that he saw all too seldom on her face – a smile.

"Charley!"

* * *

"Hey Johnny," Charley said as a huge smile swept across his face – a look, Sarah notice, he'd saved for John and not for her.

It didn't surprise her; there was no denying she'd been unfair to this man whose only mistake had been loving her.

Kyle had been her only love and Uncle Bob had been the only one she trusted, as ironic as it was, but if she'd could have chosen a father for John under ideal circumstances it would have been Charley Dixon.

She had to keep telling herself, though she didn't actually believe, that for her there was no such thing as an ideal circumstance.

From the moment she'd decided to bring John here she'd been picturing this scene in her mind; the look of surprise on John's face, the look of elation on Charley's and her own satisfaction with herself for making it happen.

The satisfaction part was lacking.

As glad as she was that the two of them were together again, John wasn't stupid. He may act like it on occasion, but he would figure out her plans – and very quickly once he realized that they would be staying the night. She wished that she didn't have to take this step and leave John in the dark, but Derek and Cameron had left her no choice.

At least that's what she kept trying to tell herself.

For a brief instant she felt that exact same tingling all over her body, like the slightest electric shock – just like she'd felt when she'd seen the image Kyle encouraging her after she'd been shot in the leg. At the time she'd considered it a hallucination brought on by adrenaline, but felling it now, the same way she'd felt it... _somewhere_... somewhere else... But where?

"_You will remember, Sarah."_

'What the hell!' _Kyle_?'

She turned around, half-expecting him to be standing right there, just as he'd been while Doctor Burnett was operating on her leg. Instead there was only the feeling, as though he'd been there but had disappeared before Sarah could notice him. The only thing left behind was the faint sound of someone whistling. Had John been watching there's no way he wouldn't have noticed, the same way he noticed that morning in the basement and in the truck.

She was grateful for his preoccupation.

* * *

After several moments alone – Sarah having tried, and failed, to slip out the door without being noticed – and without much in the way of conversation, it was plainly evident that something was wrong. Not with the larger situation – John had known there was something wrong from the moment he'd found his mother in the basement staring at the freshly painted wall that had been, until this morning, covered in blood. No, there was something wrong with Charley.

John could tell that the man was nervous. Sure, the man who could have... _should have _been his step-father was as happy to see John as John was to see him – possibly more so – but he was definitely nervous. The way he couldn't quite sit still, the way he was rubbing his hands together, the way he was making small talk about the soup – a home-made Bouillabaisse which he couldn't deny was extremely good – all of these were atypical of this man who'd been the unwitting victim of so much because of his association with John and Sarah Connor.

Their lifestyle hadn't been kind to him, but beyond that something was bothering him in the here and now.

If John knew anything about Charley Dixon it was that he was the most sincere individual he'd ever known. The man didn't have a deceptive bone in his body, and he knew something that he was trying desperately to keep from the younger man. Without a doubt he was doing it at Sarah's behest, which infuriated John even more. His mother hadn't been fair to this man whose only mistake was loving her and wanting more than a casual fling with the one-time waitress. And it wasn't lost on the young general that the war he and his mother fought had claimed as one of its early casualties a woman who'd been Charley's wife, a woman who John knew from their private conversations had been long-suffering with regards to the void left in his heart by the absence of Sarah Connor.

When he finally put his foot on it he wanted to kick himself for not seeing it right away; Charley looked tired. Not tired in the sense of having not gotten enough sleep the prior night, but tired in the sense of not sleeping on a regular basis. Despite being in fantastic shape for a man in his mid-forties, he looked as though all the life had been sucked out of him.

'You really did a number on him, mom,' John thought. He knew it wasn't that cut and dry, but if there was a father-figure he'd wanted to hold on to, other than Uncle Bob, it had been Charley Dixon. It was totally irrational, but at the same time if Sarah Connor had been just a bit more flexible in her thinking... No, he couldn't let himself think that way. As much as she'd made mistakes she wasn't responsible for the had that they'd all been dealt.

"I've got a lot of time on my hands," John heard Charley say, pulling his attention back to their conversation. "Might as well put it to good use."

He couldn't help but notice that it was more a lament than a casual remark about his living conditions.

He noticed Sarah moving about the living room, unpacking a bag – one of _his _bags – and suddenly realized something he should have picked up on before.

"She's been here before," he said, softly, for only Charley to hear.

"Not with me," the older man replied. Once again it was more a lament than a statement of fact. "She set this house up after Michelle died," he continued, but quickly changed the subject; "Hey, do you want more soup?"

"Sure," John replied, though he was sure that Charley could tell he was just giving him an out from the conversation that was threatening to go places he was sure Sarah wouldn't want it to go. He could tell that his would be step-father wasn't happy about it, but he was determined to go along with whatever scheme Sarah had concocted, and that left a bad taste in his mouth – one that even Charley's fantastic soup couldn't overcome.

"She didn't tell you why we're here," he stated, without looking the older man in the eye. There was an accusatory twinge to his tenor that he couldn't mask, though he hoped that the older man realized that it wasn't directed at him.

"No she didn't," Charley replied, quickly.

'_Too _quickly,' John thought, confirming his suspicion that he was being lied to. 'I expected better of you.'

Though disappointed – extremely disappointed – in this man he'd wanted desperately to call 'Dad,' the young general couldn't help but notice that Charley seemed to realize that John knew he was putting on an act and that knowing that he was putting on an act made it easier for the former EMT to go along with the charade when he obviously didn't want to. Despite his disappointment, John couldn't find it in himself to hold it against the poor man. He surmised that the smile on his face when John noticed him come through the door was the first one to grace his features in a long time, and he wasn't going to take out his anger with Sarah on him.

Before the two of them could take the conversation any further, she emerged from a short hallway just beyond the small kitchen.

"The spare room's in there," she indicated the hallway from which she'd come, not bothering to look either her son or her former fiancée in the eye as she did.

In another telling display, John noted the way Charley wasn't looking up at her – or him – but rather keeping his gaze on the floor while biting his fingernails. He mentally cringed at seeing how far the man had come from the confident and outgoing person he'd once been. The Charlie he'd known in 1999 wouldn't have sat idly by and gone along with a deception. He would have spoken up proudly, either in support or disagreement.

"We're spending the night," John said, not the least bit surprised. The whole act of going their own way, taking a detour, meeting Charley, the way Sarah refused to reveal their destination and now the unpacking – all the pieces fit. "We're supposed to meet Derek and Cameron," he added.

"We'll meet up with them tomorrow," she said, looking to Charley rather than him.

To his credit the older man refused to meet her gaze. Instead he turned to John; "I... I could use a hand on the boat. I've got some work to-"

"I'd be glad," John said, forcefully, cutting the older man off mid-sentence, all the while glaring at Sarah, who still refused to look at him. "First I need some air," he added, as he stood up and made for the door.

* * *

If his feelings could be summed up in a single word it would be, 'Impotent.'

He wanted to speak up. He wanted to tell Sarah that manipulating John the way she was would backfire and leave them both in a worse place than they already were, but he couldn't.

He stood up and tried to close the distance between them, but was quickly rebuffed when she took off in the opposite direction.

The message was clear - even if he could speak up she didn't respect him enough to listen. Her jaw was set, her brow was furled and her shoulders were squared. Her course was set and the only thing that was going to stop this unstoppable force was a collision with an immovable object.

The look on John's face, the same set jaw, the same furled brow and his shoulders squared in a near perfect imitation of his mother all told Charley that _he _might be that immovable object.

One thing was sure - the two of them were on a collision course for each other, and when they eventually collided things would never be the same between them again.

A thought struck the former Paramedic; John was his mother's son and he'd mastered all her mannerisms but maybe, just maybe, he'd not fully assimilated her single-mindedness. Where he was sure Sarah didn't respect him he had a feeling John did, and that meant that where he couldn't get through to Sarah he might be able to get through to John.

* * *

**FIRST CLASS SEATING AREA - AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 21  
03.21.2009 | 11:59 | AM | CST**

* * *

"...And he really expected me to believe it all, that's the part that makes me so... I dunno... angry I guess, but... wow, I've never had champagne before. I wasn't expecting it to be so... potent?"

Ellen Tigh smiled as she listened to the ever more drowsy Allison Young's declaration through slurred speech. Yes, she could blame it on the champagne. When one of the flight attendants woke her up and the plane was empty she'd imagine that the nice older lady who'd been around the block a few times with men had just gone about her business like all the rest of the passengers.

The worst that would happen is that the flight attendant would Twitter that she'd woken up the sleeping star of _Firefly, Serenity_and _The Gilmore Girls _without even dropping a line about the champagne.

None of them would ever know anything about the narcotic the older woman had slipped into her drink when she'd been distracted by the view of St. Louis from thirty-thousand feet.

"I remember the first time I had champagne. It had pretty much the same effect on me as its having on you," Ellen replied.

"I'm just glad that there aren't very many people on this... this plane," Allison said. "And I'm grateful that I'm sitting next to someone who is so understanding. I really... I just can't... Oh God, I miss him so much."

She hated taking advantage of the poor girl who, she had to admit, she'd grown fond of during the few hours they'd spent together. Listening to her side of the story had given the older woman a greater perspective on what she'd gone through when Sam started telling her about visions of other planets and wars between humans and sentient machines and... Judgment Day.

"I'm sure you do, sweetheart. I'm sure he misses you too," she said, more confidant in the truth of the statement than she let on.

"But it was all so real to him, and that's what I could never understand! We went... oh my! We went on a camping trip to the mountains and he... he wanted to stop at this observatory and he was so into the zodiac. He didn't know why at the time, and he was being so weird about it, acting like he didn't remember we'd gone, but then when he started with the names of these 'other planets,'" she said while making a quotation mark gesture and almost dropping her champagne glass – not caring in the least about the bit that splashed all over her hooded sweatshirt, "I mean, what kind of story is that? Planets named after... after... zodiac... Damn, I think I might just pass out, Ellen!"

No sooner did she say it then her head slumped against the window; at the same time she nearly dropped the glass again. Only Ellen's quick reflexes stopped it from shattering against the tray-table and drawing the attention of the handful of passengers in the first class section.

"It's called human history, my dear," Ellen said under her breath in answer to the last coherent question the young girl asked. "And you're right, you _can't _make stuff up like that. Oh, Miss?" She called out to the flight attendant who was making her rounds.

"Ma'am? Is everything alright?" The attendant asked, obviously wondering if something was wrong.

"Everything is fine, this was my young friend's first post-twenty-one glass of champagne and I think she was tired... pretty much dead tired... before we even made a toast. I was just wondering if you could get me a blanket and pillow to keep her comfortable?"

"Certainly! I'll have to retrieve one from coach since we don't keep them in the overhead compartments anymore. I'll just be a minute!"

And with that, Ellen was, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Not wanting to be caught in the act, she quickly retrieved the mascara applicator from her purse. Though time was of the essence she could help but take a moment to examine the tiny device. No one could mistake it for anything other than what it was disguised as, mostly because in addition to its more important function it _was _an applicator for mascara. But when she removed the casing from the tiny reservoir that held the mascara two small protrusions were visible. These were miniature, removable syringes. The vials were no more than the size of a pencil eraser, and the needles themselves, miniature Tuohy needles, were only slightly more than half an inch long – just long enough to serve their purpose.

"What I'm about to do might be for naught, Allison," the older woman whispered, even though the younger was not awake to hear it, "but for what it's worth, everything Sam told you was true. It's just a shame you had to find out this way," she said as she gently pulled the girl towards her, leaning her across her lap and exposing her lower back. With practiced care, she placed one of the syringes right above where she estimated the anatomical gap in the girl's spinous was and gently pressed it into her flesh. She'd simulated this procedure dozens of times in preparation for this moment and was able to walk the needle into the exact spot it needed to be such that she didn't damage the girl's spine.

When it passed into the epidural space she injected the contents of the vial into her and carefully removed the needle.

With the same gentle manner she slowly leaned Allison back into the position she'd fallen asleep in, no one else in the section having noticed a thing. Because of the needles' particular design and size bleeding wouldn't be an issue. What little blood there was would clot almost immediately at the injection site and the wound would be well on its way to healing by the time she woke up. Unfortunately, she would likely have a sore back, which she'd undoubtedly attribute to the champagne and sleeping at an uncomfortable angle.

Quickly Ellen returned the now empty syringe to its receptacle, then took the second syringe and placed it against the side of the girl's neck. In a single motion she pressed it into the appropriate artery and collected the genetic sample that she needed; Plan A could conceivably fail, after all, and she wasn't going home empty handed.

When she finished, the second syringe joined the first one back in its receptacle; it took but a moment to slide the whole reservoir assembly back into its casing. Just to complete the illusion, Ellen retrieved a compact mirror from her purse and dipped the applicator brush into the reservoir.

The flight attendant arrived only seconds later, pillow and blanket in hand, to find the still sleeping starlet slouched against the window – right where she'd left her – and her older traveling companion touching up her mascara.

No one would know just how greatly she'd violated the girl, even if that violation was the means to her salvation.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

Special thanks to my proofreader, TaleWeaver, for beta-reading this chapter and JMHthe3rd and TermFan1980 for helping me with my "overwriting" issue!

Also, special thanks to the members of the oBSG Fanfic eList members Cessna and Kai, as well as my good friend Bryan0711, for their input regarding laser-guided bombs and missiles in conventional warfare.

One final plug for the contributors to the "Visi0nary's Fan Fiction" thread on the TSCC "Blue" Wiki! http:// tsccwiki. wetpaint. com /forum/Fan+Fictions

Your reviews are appreciated; like JMHthe3rd says, reviews are fuel for writers!


	15. Chapter 14

14

* * *

**THE LIGHTHOUSE  
NEAR MALIBU, CALIFORNIA  
03.21.2009 | 02:41 | PM | PST**

* * *

John had to admit that even though he didn't agree with Sarah's decision to split up the family, he'd really enjoyed the couple of hours he'd gotten to spend alone with Charley. His definition of, "some work to do on the boat," was actually giving John the opportunity to drive the boat around for fun – and to test the new engine Charley had just fitted it with – and, if he wanted, to go fishing.

Despite living the better part of his life on the California and Mexican coasts – months at a time spent survival training under the guise of "camping" in the jungles of Nicaragua and the Sonoran Desert notwithstanding – he'd found himself partaking of fresh fish far too seldom for his liking. Not keen on the idea of his mother preparing dinner, he'd jumped at the chance to catch his own evening meal – despite the fact that Charley had the air of a man who'd eaten far more fresh fish than he cared to.

Beyond getting the chance to have fresh, healthy food as opposed to convenience store burritos and Whoppers, the time alone gave the two men the chance to talk – more so John who'd done the majority of the talking while Charley had patiently listened. It was an experience he'd never appreciated when they'd been living together as a quasi-family in 1999, to be able to just talk and have a parent listen. Not only did Charley lend him an ear, but when he responded it wasn't with ridicule or judgment but support and understanding.

Of course the conversation hadn't included details about the turnaround in his relationship with Cameron that had taken place over the past twenty-four hours and had culminated in the kiss he was still riding an emotional high from.

Unfortunately that emotional high had dipped from its previous levels when they'd began discussing the details of the sordid Riley and Jesse affair.

Now, with the boat once again docked, Charley skinning fish and John cleaning the fishing gear, the older man responded with a sort of feigned surprise when John informed him that he hadn't discussed many of the more intimate details of the whole event with his mother. The lack of a male role-model in his life seemed to be perfectly evident to the older man and rather than ridicule John for allowing himself to be caught up in Jesse's twisted game of manipulation, Charley offered an understanding: "It happens to all of us at least once – if we're lucky."

At that point John hadn't had any choice but to make the embarrassing admission that he'd only been interested in pursuing a relationship with Riley to show Sarah that she couldn't control his destiny entirely.

"In the end the end it wasn't mom controlling my destiny, but my destiny controlling me. And here I thought I was pulling my own strings for once," he said.

"It couldn't have been easy to keep all of this bottled up for so long," Charley replied.

"Yeah, well... Sarah Connor isn't the easiest person in the world to talk to," John said without adding the word, 'anymore' and biting his tongue to keep from mentioning that he'd already unloaded all of these feelings on Cameron; as much as he was enjoying his time with Charley he was missing the presence of the female Terminator.

After a brief moment of silence he chuckled; "Listen to me, telling _you _about how hard it is to talk to my mom."

"Right, who knows better than ol' Charley," he replied, eliciting a hearty laugh from the younger man. "So she was from the future and you knew, the whole time?"

It was a detail John had saved for the very end. "Not the whole time. I suspected something, but…"

'But you ignored it. And when Cameron tried to warn you that you were making a mistake you blew her off.'

"It just took a while to figure it out," he added.

"Did you love her?"

"No. I thought I did... could... wanted to, I don't know." He realized how indecisive he sounded, how unsure of what he was saying, but it was exactly how he'd felt from the moment Riley walked up to him. She'd played on that indecision and confusion and he'd almost fallen for it. "I thought she was a good person. Sometimes you just don't know people as well as you think you do."

"Or maybe you just don't look close enough. You turn a blind eye to things that don't fit with the way you look at the world," Charley offered.

John laughed. "That's deep." He considered delving deeper, telling Charley about his conversations with Derek the prior night, how enormous the entire situation actually was – how he'd nearly guaranteed humanity's eternal destruction with several months of immature behavior, but he thought better of it.

"I spend a lot of time just thinking these days. Growing tomatoes and fishing only takes up so much time," Charley replied with a smile.

"And why do you think mom decided to come _here_?"

"Come on, Johnny, you know I'm the last person she'd explain anything to."

The obvious lie infuriated the younger man, but he still couldn't find it in his heart to hold it against the older; "I asked what you _think_, not what she told you."

Charley sighed. "She called me last... well, early – just after 1:00 AM. She said she needed to see me, that _you _needed to see me."

'1:00 AM; just after our argument,' John thought.

"She said, 'A change needs to be made,' and that she'd need my help; she didn't elaborate. Honestly, I don't know what to think about that."

"'A change needs to be made,' huh? She said that?"

"Whatever her reasons, you've got to believe she's got your best interests at heart. Protecting you is always her top priority."

John snorted; "You really believe that's what all this is about?"

Charley opened his mouth to reply, but stopped himself before he could.

Realizing that even Charley's heart wasn't in his defense of his mother, John asked, "You ever hear of El Viejo del Monte?"

"Can't say that I have," Charley replied, suddenly looking confused.

"It's a Central American legend about a hunter. He didn't hunt for food, he hunted for sport, killing anything and everything that crossed his path."

"Sounds like a pleasant guy," the older man quipped sarcastically.

"Mom used to tell me the story when we were camping out in the jungle. Other kids had _Peter Pan _and _Pinocchio _for fairy tales; I had El Viejo. She liked to think it was my favorite legend, but it wasn't; it was _hers_. To teach him a lesson about respect for life the gods, whoever they were, turned him into a half-man half-ape creature. They forced him to defend the jungle from other hunters who were like he once was; he was a monster who became a champion."

"Sounds like everything turned out right in the end."

"She imagines that she's El Viejo and I'm the jungle, that she's just being the vigilant protector. It's the story of her life. She puts a happy spin on it, or at least she did when I was little, but El Viejo never had time for joy, or for rest... In a very literal way doing what he did... doing what destiny demanded left him inhuman."

Again, Charley seemed like he was going to jump to Sarah's defense, but stopped before he could speak. After a short, but uneasy, silence he said, "You don't think you're being a little hard on her? Not many people have the weight of the world on their shoulders."

"That's the problem. Carrying the weight of the world isn't easy. Sometimes... it's good to have help," he said, Cameron's words rolling off his own tongue as easily as if they'd been his own, "She's not just struggling to carry the burden, she's struggling to keep carrying the burden _alone_. She's been preaching to me about my destiny since I was old enough to understand what that meant, and now it feels like she's fighting to keep me from becoming what she's been telling me I'm supposed to become. Does that make any sense?"

Charley laughed. "It doesn't make any sense at all, and at the same time it makes all the sense in the world. I loved your mom; I loved her _very _much, but... I don't have her strength, John."

"Charley, you're too hard on yourself-"

"Hear me out, John. I'm weak. I'm here hiding in this little paradise on the coast while you and your mom are fighting a war in the shadows and tying to prevent a very real apocalypse."

"You lost a lot because of our war, Charley, a war that was supposed to be won before we ever met you."

"I haven't lost anything less than your mom, John. Terminators killed your father the same way they killed Michelle. Your mom didn't run and hide."

"You didn't run and hide; she sent you away."

"I'm a grown man, Johnny. I have a voice. I could have stood up at any time and said, 'No, Sarah, I'm part of the fight.' I didn't. I let her send me away. Truth be told she sent me away not just because she felt responsible for what happened to Michelle but because she knew I didn't have what it takes to be in this fight."

John wanted to protest, but found that he couldn't find the words. He didn't want to believe it, but deep down he knew Charley was right. He sighed, and let his head dip in frustration. He thought the world of the older man and the tenor of their conversation was making him feel like he was already another casualty of war – walking dead, but dead nonetheless.

He turned toward the house; even through the glare of the early-afternoon sun off of the lighthouse, he could still make out his mother's face watching them through a window, the ever vigilant El Viejo del Connor. It darkened his mood even further to realize that he wasn't sure whether or not she was looking at him as El Viejo the protector or El Viejo the hunter.

He shook his head and turned back to Charley; "What kind of explosives did you rig the beach with?"

* * *

Sarah couldn't make out what Charley and her son were saying, but their body language, the looks they were giving each other and the daggers John had just been staring at her told the elder Connor two things: the conversation had been about her, and it hadn't been pleasant.

She was a realist, above all else. She couldn't expect either of them to be happy with her. She was plotting behind John's back and he was on the verge of figuring it out; she'd also made Charley, who John adored, her accomplice. While he wouldn't see him as such, subconsciously he would hold it against his would-have-been father. One relationship damaged forever, two others severed by absence and possibly never restored.

Despite Derek's behavior of late it pained her to tear her son away from his father's only living blood-relative.

As for Cameron, try as she might Sarah couldn't get the image of the female cyborg crying out of her mind. For a fleeing moment she wished she had a chip rather than a brain; how wonderful it would be to erase a memory by deleting a file. In the blink of an eye the two of them went from a state of mutual distrust and antagonism to Cameron bawling over the suggestion that John didn't believe her – she cringed at the thought – _feelings_ were real and John sneaking into the morgue to find evidence on Riley's body – Riley's _dead _body – to prove Cameron's innocence.

And then there was Charley.

She'd not expected him to happily welcome her with open arms, but she hadn't been expecting to be told off. She couldn't get over the dismissive way he'd said, "There's some bread in the 'fridge, some peanut butter... help yourself," or the way he'd said, "No you won't," when she told him that she wouldn't be staying long. He hadn't been unhappy to hear it – he'd been _relieved._

That voice insider her – the one she didn't want to acknowledge, the one that hoped he would be glad to see her – was growing louder. It was the voice of reason, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't ignore it; it was telling her that she was making a mistake.

It didn't help that she was hearing Kyle's voice, like a ghost standing right next to her, echoing those sentiments:

"_What you're planning... It won't work."_

'Like a ghost,' she thought, 'standing right next to me.'

She'd been convinced that her mind had been playing tricks on her due to a spike in adrenaline and endorphins after getting shot, but now... Thinking back on it she hadn't had any good reason to have been staring at the basement wall the prior afternoon, nor was there a good reason she'd been totally oblivious to John's presence as she painted over that same wall only a few hours earlier.

She felt at her breast and the lump that she'd noticed only a few short days ago and considered that maybe there _was _a good reason.

"No," she said to herself, "It doesn't work like that."

"_You weren't ready... all will be revealed... You will remember, Sarah."_

"I will remember," she whispered. She pushed all thoughts of a possibly cancerous tumor causing her to hallucinate. "I _will _remember! Dammit, what am I supposed to remember?" She felt more certain than ever that she hadn't imagined Kyle whispering those words to her.

'But he's dead, and there's no such thing as ghosts. So how is it that I'm so certain I saw him with me out in the desert, and in the hospital and in the hotel?'

"It's a feeling, an intuition," she said in a voice not entirely her own.

'...but the clarity fades,' she continued in her thoughts – but _not _her thoughts.

'Whoa! What. The. _Hell_?'

"_These things happen for a reason," _came a man's voice from behind her.

She pulled her gun and spun around, but when she came about she was no longer in the lighthouse.

* * *

_Instead she was standing in the examination room of a Doctor's office that was overwhelmingly white. She turned again, expecting that she'd be back in the lighthouse, but her surroundings remained the same – all appearing brighter and slightly distorted, as though she was looking through a dreamy fog. Sunlight brighter than it should be shone through the vertical blinds behind a female doctor leaning over a dark-haired woman – a very familiar dark haired woman._

_It was Sarah herself, and she knew almost instantly that this dreamlike scene was a breast examination. She stepped closer to the examination table, trying to make out the images being fed to a monitor by the ultrasound. _

"_I'm sorry, Ms. Connor," the doctor said ominously._

_The 'real' Sarah gasped, while the one on the examination table started to cry._

"_This is not your fate," came the same man's voice she'd heard a moment ago. _

_This time he was standing right next to her; she didn't know where he'd come from, but now they were together, and instead of being in the examination room they were now in the auditorium with a roof open to a cloudless nighttime sky. They were standing in the center, surrounded by empty seats. The stage was a dozen or so rows beyond them._

_She lamented silently that the gun she'd drawn when she first heard his voice was nowhere to be found; at the same time she felt uncharacteristically at ease in the unfamiliar – or was he? - man's presence. _

_'I've been here before,' she thought, any question of how or why she'd suddenly been whisked away from 'reality' temporarily banished from her mind. She looked to the man who was staring up at the stars._

"_I see the universe. I see the patterns. Do you?"_

_Rather than ask who he was or where they were or how he came to be there with her, she looked to the sky. Her astronomy was somewhat rusty, but the prominent constellations – those that made up the signs of the Zodiac – were clearly visible. _

_'This isn't right,' she thought. The pattern was wrong; from her perspective they were each in their proper place along the elliptical displayed like a ring – like something out of an astronomy book or a display on the ceiling of a planetarium. At most a stargazer could see two, or three of them at a time from a single vantage point if they were lucky._

"_What is it I'm supposed to see?"_

"_All this,," he replied, tracing the circular star pattern in the air with his finger, "happening again."_

"_I know you," she said pointedly, ignoring his non-answer. She'd seen him. _Here_. She didn't know how it was possible, because she was only now remembering, but she'd been in this place before. _

"_And I know you," he replied with equal certainty. "You're everything I thought you would be."_

_Her earlier rush of memories – another woman's memories – suddenly made sense._

"_That's what you told _her_. The two of you were sitting across a table from each other, and you told her she was everything you thought she'd be."_

_Was this what Kyle insisted she'd remember? If so, _why_?_

"_You were here – before – with me. I saw you staring at the stage. You thought I was her. I thought I was her."_

"_What else did you see?"_

"_I don't- I think it was the future. I saw... a ship; a spaceship. I was flying some kind of space plane, and I was telling people that I found Earth. And then things were different; I was somewhere else. You were there; we were painting. It wasn't the first time was it?"_

"_The first time we painted?" He asked, confused._

"_The- I called it the mandala. I remember! I- she painted it, and you were there, and we- you and her made love. And you were there again, and we were painting a comet. Then we were standing in a field next to burned-out wreckage. I asked you what it meant, what I was," she replied with a calmness entirely foreign to her. _

"_You remind me of her; darker hair, darker eyes but you have that same fire inside."_

"_And all her memories too, apparently."_

"_Not all," he said cryptically._

"_What is this place?"_

"_A projection, a dream, a memory of a place that doesn't exist anymore. Not from my perspective, anyway."_

_The term 'projection' made no sense to her, but the second half of the comment..._

"_See? If you had all her memories you'd know what projection was. Can you remember anything else?"_

_She thought on the question; what did she remember? What she thought she knew was fading, again, like it had when she'd seen all of this before. She closed her eyes and focused, desperately trying to hold on to the fading thought stream._

_'Stream?'_

"_'A part of me swims in the stream, but in truth I'm standing on the shore,'" she said, repeating his own words back to him._

"_'But the current never takes me downstream.' You weren't there, but you remember it like you were." He seemed amazed by the idea._

"_I see you standing there in front of me with your arm stretched out. You're reaching out to me, but I can't feel you," she went on._

"_We were separated," he replied as he stood and came face to face with her. He put his hand out, beckoning her to return the gesture. "You... She couldn't touch me."_

_After only a seconds indecision she pressed her palm to his. "'Each of us plays a role... the players change, the story remains the same,'" she repeated his words as heard through the ears of another woman. "She prayed for you."_

"_She did?" He seemed genuinely surprised. _

"_She prayed for her Lords to take care of your soul, even though she wasn't sure you had one."_

_He smiled and closed his eyes, tilting his head back up at the sky. "Some would say I don't."_

_She pulled her hand away and took a step back. "What is all this about?"_

"_I don't know what all this is about," he replied, turning toward the stage. _

"_All this is going to change," came a different male voice from her opposite side. _

_She turned to see a young man – the same man she'd seen her before sitting in the center of the room when she was on the stage. Up close he appeared to be about John's age, with curly dark hair even more unruly than her son's had recently been. He was wearing what looked like a Catholic school uniform._

"_You pray but your gods don't answer; you hurt but your gods don't heal," he said, speaking with the voice of a fanatic. He was a good six inches shorter than her, not counting the heels of her boots, but to hear him one would think he was ten feet tall._

_And with a flash she was on the stage standing just behind and to the left of the girl at the piano who – she remembered – she'd mistaken for Cameron. Whoever she was she was younger than Cameron appeared, but had a look like she could be her slightly younger sister. She glanced back, smiling, not missing a note on the piano as the all too familiar melody repeated itself._

"_Everything begins with a choice," the girl said. "No fate but what we make, but..." she trailed off as both women noticed the light from above growing more intense._

_Looking up Sarah saw why. The ring of constellations had coalesced into three distinct stars arranged in the all too familiar triangular pattern, and they were growing brighter. Within seconds she was consumed by a flash of such intensity she'd only seen the like of one other time – when in her mind she'd Los Angeles swallowed by a nuclear detonation._

* * *

And then she was back in the lighthouse, her weapon drawn on the least harmful thing she could imagine: the dog, who was just sitting there with his head cocked slightly to the side.

She drew in a deep breath, held it for the few seconds it took for her to accept the fact that there was no other person there and return the gun to its holster and then exhaled.

Time seemed to stop for that moment; her vision became distorted, like tunnel-vision and she could hear a faint echo of the girl at the piano completing her comment:

"_...even fate can be a victim of chance."_

The room began to spin slowly and Sarah felt unsure of herself on her feet. She stumbled, step-by-step to the bathroom where she fell to her knees in front of the toilet and promptly regurgitated her meager breakfast of tea and toast.

* * *

WASHINGTON, D.C.  
03.21.2009 | 05:50 | PM | EST

* * *

"Follow me, Special Agent Auldridge," the attractive, tight-lipped and unnamed woman in the dark suit with a hemline just above what was considered appropriate – albeit informally – for females in the employ of the Federal Government said in a tone that indicated she expected compliance and that she didn't plan on repeating herself. Indeed, no sooner had the words left her lips than she'd quickly turned and taken off down the stately decorated hallway beyond the foyer he'd just come from.

He ran to catch up, but stopped short of matching her pace as the annoyed look she flashed back at him without breaking her stride suggested he was to keep a respectable distance.

He'd not felt so intimidated in a long time – not since Marine basic training, in fact, and Drill Sergeant Kessler hadn't been a tenth the looker that this woman with no name was.

Being summoned across the country from his home office in LA wasn't a new experience for the fourteen year veteran of the Bureau. Had his Section Leader called him into his office only hours earlier and told him that he was to fly to Washington immediately for a special briefing with other officials of the National Security Branch he'd have literally thought nothing of it. As it was his level of interest had risen only slightly when he was told he would be meeting not with some unnamed official but _thee _Executive Assistant Director – not the EAD of the Bureau's National Security Branch to which he was assigned but the most senior EAD in the entire organization – one Walter S. Skinner.

His flight on a military courier had been quick and uneventful as expected, and the commute from Hoover Airfield to the new annex of the JEH Federal Complex where 'thee' Executive Assistant Director's office was located had been, frankly, boring as his escorts hadn't been especially talkative. At the time he hadn't thought much of it; some people simply didn't know how to express themselves while working for an entity that dealt with so many things one just couldn't talk about.

Now, rounding the third corner since the trek from the foyer began – with each section of hallway getting progressively darker – he realized that each person he'd encountered since he'd stepped off the plane had been ordered to say as little to him as possible. While he was still reasonably sure that whatever was going on was part of a plan devised by people higher in the Bureau's organizational structure, a tiny, paranoid part of him which he didn't want to admit existed couldn't help but feel like he was walking merrily to his own demise at the hands of some enemy force which had corrupted the minds of his friends, co-workers and superiors.

He shook off the thought as quickly as it came; had some shadowy anti-government force wanted to kidnap an Agent there were much easier ways to do it.

As he and his icy escort came around a fourth corner he realized that his journey was nearing its end; at the end of this hallway was a single door the size of a set of double-doors flanked on each side by men wearing dark suits exactly the same as his own; the only tell that these were operatives of an agency other than the Bureau were the familiar earpieces they wore with attached coil wires that looked brand new circa 1970.

'Sometimes TV gets it right,' he lamented silently.

One of the sentries moved to open the door in time for his escort to pass through without acknowledging either of them. As expected, neither man so much as batted an eye as he stepped across the threshold.

"A gentleman will be with you shortly; make yourself comfortable," she said curtly and with absolutely no emotion before turning and walking right back out.

He waited until the same man who'd opened the door for her moved to close it before murmuring, "You wouldn't know the meaning of the word."

Taking in his surroundings, he couldn't help but think he'd been in this place before, or at the very least seen it in pictures or on television. While it was true that countless places in the nation's capital could be so described, the particular elegant carpeting, furnishings, the classical artwork and Colonial-era architecture – all of it screamed out to him in such a way that he _should _know where he was.

The most 'illuminating' thing about the place was its _lack _of illumination; it was obviously an interior room as there was no window to be seen. The room had a circular shape as opposed to the traditional four-walls; a ring of dim recessed lights followed along its edge, each one projecting a soft ray of yellowish light along the curved walls while an ornate, but low-intensity, chandelier gave light to a seating area in the center.

A portal – larger than it needed to be for one person, or several, to pass through at once – to his right separated the room from another sparsely lit room which, from the rows of books along the walls, looked to be a library or a study.

He approached it, hoping to get a better look, but stopped in his tracks when he heard a man's voice coming from behind.

"Auldridge, Thaddeous J., 'Ted' to you friends, Special Agent classification II, serial number 70-4997, Western Division, Los Angeles Field Office," the man said, stepping through a door he'd not noticed opposite the portal to the library, "Welcome to Washington, D.C."

The speaker was immediately recognizable when he came into view, and his appearance was enough to tell the Bureau man where he was and why his trip there had been cloaked in such secrecy. He was quick to respond to the surprise on Auldridge's face – which had nothing to do with the fact that he'd just been addressed as Special Agent C-II.

"I assume you've got that goofy look on your face because your either surprised to see me – which would mean you've only just figured out where you are – or you realize you've just been promoted. Or, is it both?" The speaker – White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel – asked.

"Uh... promoted, sir?" Auldridge replied.

Emanuel laughed.

"Yes, Special Agent Auldridge, you've been promoted."

"I, uh, don't believe you have the authority to promote me, Mr. Chief of Staff."

'Or _does _he?' the newly promoted and deeply confused Special Agent wondered. Last he checked the Bureau was still under the authority of the Department of Justice – an agency of the Legislative Branch.

"Ah, no, I don't, but you have, in fact, been promoted in accordance with a recommendation from your Section Chief and Regional Director. Given the circumstances surrounding this little get-together, I thought hearing about your promotion would put you at ease. I imagine this isn't something that happens all that often," the former Congressman from Illinois and, according to some, most trusted advisor to the President said.

'No, I have secret meetings with officials of the Executive Branch all the time,' the Agent thought but didn't say.

"It's... unusual would be the term, yes sir."

The Chief of Staff chuckled and motioned to a set of plush two-seater couches with an antique coffee-table in between them just beneath the chandelier in the center of the room. The Bureau man wondered whether this was they typical lighting scheme or just a device to keep him focused entirely on his host.

"Have a seat, Auldridge, and we'll get to all the questions running through your head about the separation of powers, the authority of the Legislative and Executive Branches and what-not. The Constitution can be such a nuisance sometimes."

The comment stopped the agent in mid-motion just as he started to sit down.

Noticing his reaction, Emanuel added, "That was a joke, Auldridge. I have a great deal of respect for the Constitution, despite what certain radio talk-show hosts would have you believe. Go on, sit down."

When he did, the older man poured two glasses of water from a pitcher he'd only just noticed in the center of the table, took one and slid the other across to Auldridge, which he didn't move to take.

"So, I assume you're wondering, 'Why am I meeting, and being promoted by, the White House Chief of Staff rather than meeting with Assistant Director Skinner as I was ordered to?' Is that right?"

"Among other things, yes sir."

Emanuel smiled. "Such as?"

"What I'd said or done to offend the woman who escorted me from the reception area."

"Ah, 'Heartless,' we call her," the former Congressman replied with a chuckle.

"It fits."

"To a 'T.' She's the most valuable assistant a person in my position could ask for. She's been with me for a long time. When I was working for the Daly Administration in Chicago my wife insisted she be the one to choose my staff members; she wanted to be sure that if I strayed from our marriage vows it wasn't with someone who worked for me. The first time I saw Heartless I thought my wife was putting temptation before me on purpose until I actually spoke to her. I've never once considered taking that," he struggled with the term, "woman... to bed. But she's been a blessing professionally which is why I've kept her around."

It was an nugget of information one typically didn't hear about this particular government official in the media, but it told him nothing about his reasons for arranging a sit-down with an agent of an organization under someone else's jurisdiction.

As if reading his mind, Emanuel continued, "I can see by the look on your face that you're eager to get down to business; I can appreciate that. How many years have you been with the Bureau, Auldridge?"

"You read off my full name and current, as of this minute, employment status, sir. I suspect you know how long I've been an Agent."

"Conversations tend to work better when _both _parties take part, and its rare I have one in this room that isn't one sided. I was looking forward to this, in part, because I expected more participation from you. Yes, I know you've been with the Bureau for fourteen years; a fourteen year veteran should know how to identify a situation where there is a 'need-to-know' element. Long and short, I'm putting you on assignment."

"You, sir?"

"Of course Section Chief Staunton's name will appear on the official order," Emanuel replied before adding cryptically, "When the time comes."

It was clear by the man's ear-to-ear smile that he was enjoying keeping the agent in the dark. It fit with what was publicly known about the man's personality.

"Like your promotion, which would have happened before long anyway, this is all being done with the approval of your Regional Director, Director Mueller and anyone else in your particular pecking order," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Clearly any regard for protocol and the separation of powers – despite what the man claimed – was of secondary importance to whatever it was the President's advisor wanted from him.

"Even the Attorney General is aware that this meeting is taking place, even if he takes an otherwise hands-off approach to the Bureau's activities," Emanuel added.

"Which brings us back to that issue of separation of powers, Mr. Chief of Staff. You have no authority over the Department of Justice," he said pointedly, hoping a man known for his frankness and intensity would respect his stance.

"Quite true," Emanuel replied, giving no indication that the challenge bothered him. "I already know you're a stickler for procedure, which I respect, but there's a time for adhering strictly to the letter of the law and a time for _not; _this is a time for not. I need something done and I think you're the man to do it. I could have asked any of two-dozen people in your position, but you're the one sitting here. Protocol and separation of powers aside I, along with my colleagues, _do _have the authority to do what we're doing."

Then the man took his downing the contents of his glass before slowly leaning forward and setting it down. He didn't lean back as his already sharp gaze took on new seriousness.

"The question is, will youjoin us?"

"You haven't told me what you want me to do, sir. I'm willing to take you at your word that the i's are dotted and t's crossed, but if 'need-to-know' means I don't get to know the details until I've said yes or no, I would have to decline."

"Don't worry, son. As the Director of National Intelligence reports to me, I can assure you that those proverbial i's have been dotted and the t's crossed, insofar as they can be in any need-to-know operation, that is."

Any number of things bothered the agent about the conversation thus far, but none more than the suggestion that the DNI reported to the Chief of Staff rather than the President directly. The actual role of the person holding the position varied depending on the occupant of the Oval Office, but from what he knew about the position – which admittedly didn't extend far beyond what he'd read on Wikipedia – acting in place of the President when dealing with people such as the Director of National Security wasn't in the job description, even though Emanuel seemed eminently qualified to do so.

"Need-to-know, sir?"

"Given the events of the past twenty-four hours you should realize why one of the Bureau's top priorities is the vigilant protection of this nation from the effects of cyber warfare and high-technology crimes. In that vein, would you not agree that certain cases your friend, former Special Agent James Ellison, was the lead investigator on warrant special attention?"

The mention of Auldridge's friend and former partner altered his perception of the conversation entirely in almost an instant, and it showed on his face.

"I've got you even more curious now, I see," Emanuel quipped.

"You could say that, sir. Some... interesting things came across Agent Ellison's desk in his time."

"Things that should have never seen the light of... the lamp on Agent Ellison's desk. Of course even there they were still under relative wraps, but it seems fate is determined to force us to face them. 'Interesting' doesn't scratch the surface of it, Auldridge, but that's not something I have any intention of discussing further until I know you're on board."

After a moment's thought Auldridge said, "You certainly know how to tempt a man with forbidden fruit, sir. You have me promoted-"

"I told you," the older man interrupted a hint of anger creeping across his features for the first time, "you would have been promoted anyway. I simply talked to the right people about accelerating the process. The promotion stands, whether you take the assignment or not, but you know you want to take the assignment andmore importantly _I _know you want to take the assignment."

"We're talking about the Connor case, aren't we sir," the Agent said rather than asked, confident in his assessment.

"We're talking about you taking point on an investigation into a series of events that haven't happened yet. What connection, if any, these events have to any unsolved domestic terrorism investigations on the Bureau's books I can't tell you, nor can I tell you when those events are going to take place as I don't know. All I know is that they're going to happen _soon_. I'd prefer to have someone ready to move on this with a moment's notice which is why you're here."

"If you don't know what's going to happen-"

"How do I know it's going to happen? _That_, Special Agent Auldridge, is and will remain privileged. Again, when the time comes a task force is going to be created and an Agent is going to be called on to head it up."

The Chief of Staff then stood up. "I'm stepping out for just a moment. While I'm gone you can walk out the door," he pointed to the entrance from which the younger man had come, "and forget this conversation ever happened _or _you can stay and be made privy to just shy of twenty-five years worth of history only a select few have any knowledge of. If you're still here when I come back I'll know I have a partner; if you're not, I'll know I don't," he said with finality before making his way to a door on the opposite side of the room the Agent was only now noticing.

Now left alone with his thoughts in the light-deprived Stateroom, the singular question on his mind was, 'What _did _you discover chasing ghosts in the desert, James?'

* * *

**BALDWIN HILLS-CRENSHAW PLAZA MALL  
CRENSHAW, CALIFORNIA  
03.21.2009 | 3:10 | PM | PST**

* * *

Leoben wasn't sure how it'd happened, but he knew that by some design beyond his understanding he'd just had his first conversation with Sarah Connor.

It hadn't been a dream, or a vision or a projection gone awry, but an actual conversation, even if it had been an entirely telepathic one.

The fact that it had happened didn't surprise him, and not just because of the possibility of it happening due to the machinations of beings like the one who'd taken on the visage of Kara to speak to him. He'd felt something like this, albeit not as intense, with the real Kara, and Caprica Six professed to have had conversations with Baltar across great distances as though they'd been in the same room.

What disturbed him was that he seemed to have no ability to control the process. He'd just been sitting in his car, watching the partners of the men he'd tracked to the Connor house the prior night watch the girl from his modified vision of the Opera House and the unidentified male she was traveling with. To him it appeared that there were only three vehicles scattered across a grassy meadow at dusk illuminated only by the light of Caprica's moon Hyperion as opposed to the dull, half-empty parking lot of the mall at Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza. Then, out of nowhere, he'd found himself standing next to Sarah Connor; a Sarah Connor who possessed a selection of memories that belonged to Kara Thrace!

As thought provoking as that was, the presence of the Athenian schoolboy and the girl on the stage was even more so. He'd never seen either of them, and yet from the moment he'd laid eyes on them both seemed eerily familiar.

"_Even fate can be a victim of chance..."_

They were more than words; something at his core, something deep within his soul, something yet to be remembered caused him to be enraptured by them. It wasn't something the hybrid had put in his head, nor was it a result of something the being with Kara's face had done to him; it was _innate_. He felt something akin to reverence for both of them. Were he to assign a name to the particular feeling generated by being in their presence it would be reverence. It didn't make sense – as so little yet did – but could swear there was something maternal about the girl and paternal about the young man – in as much as a person who'd never been born traditionally could understand a child's relationship with its parents.

It amused him to think that Sarah had seen a familial resemblance between this girl he felt a connection with and the girl he'd seen in his initial vision standing in almost the exact same spot with her son. At the very least it was nice to have a name – Cameron – to go with the face. The name echoed through her mind the way the images from the various visions resonated in his. He'd not gleaned enough during the brief time she'd been mentally exposed to him, but he knew the girl was on her mind quite a bit. For reasons he wasn't privy to the younger girl's relationship with her son was a bone of contention between them. Even more unpleasant was the fact that she believed she'd been stricken with terminal cancer and that she was currently plotting against her son.

He could see why any of these things would be bothersome to a person, but he found himself disappointed in Sarah Connor for being so preoccupied by such trivialities given that she was fighting to stop an apocalypse. It was irrational, he knew, as he really didn't yet know the woman or her son or this Cameron, but still...

His thoughts were interrupted briefly as a loud group of Earth teenagers came walking through the lane between the rows of parked cars just in front of his. Their dialect was a mesh of what sounded like Sagittarion and Colonial Standard – or Spanish and English as they were known on Earth. They seemed to take great pleasure in hurling a string of taunts and obscenities his way. He simply smiled and shook his head, amused by the fact that Earth could be so much like the Colonies _and _his own home-world and at the same time so different.

As much as he'd like to devote more of his mental energy to exploring his new-found mental connection with Sarah Connor and the nature of the Earth's links to the world he'd left behind, he had to concentrate on more immediate matters – such as the two men sitting in the gold van across the parking lot.

These two were poor trackers – and given how bad their partners had been, that was saying something.

Sure they'd done a decent enough job of keeping their marks – the object of the Connor boy's affection and her older male companion in the truck – from noticing them, but they were all but announcing their intentions to anyone with a sharp enough eye.

The galleria this particular parking lot served had seen better days economically, and they'd taken up position in a section of it that was all but deserted near a row of storefronts each with **For Sale or Lease **signs in the windows. He was hiding in amongst cars owned by patrons of a large theater attached to the main complex and a row of free-standing restaurants that lined the perimeter of the property. While this part of the lot was relatively full, foot traffic to and from the parked cars was practically nonexistent, aside from the group of teenagers who'd just passed through and were now well on their way to leaving the lot in a car playing particularly loud – and annoying - music.

That would make things easy in dealing with the two in the van when the time came and, as the truck that was the object of their interest was about to round the corner of the fast-food restaurant at the far end of the lot and disappear from view, the time would be soon.

Then he'd need only deal with the occupant of the black sports car who'd been shadowing both him and the men in the van.

That one, currently parked a short distance away in a spot that gave him a clear view of Leoben's car, the van _and _the Connor truck, had been shrewd enough to notice him following the others. Dealing with this shadow, physically, would be easy enough if he intervened on behalf of the men in the van, but it could draw the attention of the few people moving about the lot, and that was a complication he didn't need.

He hoped that the shadow stuck to watching for the time being. Once he'd taken care of his friends in the van he'd deal with the shadow.

No sooner had the thought come and gone than the Connor truck finally turned the corner of the drive-through. In a moment the men in the van would make their move.

And so would he.

* * *

"It's one thing to take orders from one of those machines the way we do, but what do you think it's like to have to... live with one? _Eat _with one?" the half-Japanese man – Gregerson – asked his partner.

"Do they eat?" asked that younger partner – Ravotti – while watching the black Dodge Ram waiting its turn in the drive-through of Fatburger across the parking lot, its occupants seemingly unaware of the fact that they were being followed. "Doesn't make sense that they would. I sure as hell never saw the boss eat."

"Yeah, but by all accounts the girl is supposed to be special."

"Especially _hot."_

"My God man, she's a souped-up Repliee Q2!"

Ravotti dropped the binoculars and looked to his partner. "Need I remind you it was your people that came up with the Repliee Q2; I thought the Japanese were all about sex with robots."

Gregerson rolled his eyes. "I'm only Japanese on my mother's side, ya jerk!"

"Whatever," Ravotti replied as he went back to observing the truck with the binoculars. "You're just jealous there's no little kiddie sex bots on the market yet"

Gregerson ignored the jab at his tainted past. As far as he was concerned, Ravotti with his multiple convictions for rape and other lesser forms of sexual assault, was no better.

"They're just about to make their turn to the blind side of the building," the younger Ravotti went on, "so we better move it."

"Sounds like a plan. With any luck we'll slip into traffic right behind them as they pull out of the mall," Gregerson said as he started the van's engine and shifted into **Drive**_**.**_

Only to slam quickly on the brakes as another car – a classic 1968 Chevy Camaro which had seen better days – came to a screeching halt right in front of them.

Both men lurched forward; Gregerson, held in place by his seatbelt simply eased back into his upright position when the inertia which propelled them forward eased. Ravotti, who hadn't been wearing his, went head-first into the van's dashboard – with the binoculars in between.

"Son of a bitch!" the younger man cursed and threw the binoculars down.

As livid as Ravotti was, the driver of the Camaro – a forty-something looking man with dirty blonde hair – seemed to be having a fit inside his car.

"Take it easy man! We gotta be cool about this so we don't make a scene!"

Not surprisingly, the younger man ignored him.

* * *

His partner's suggestion to 'take it easy' would have been the better way to handle things, but the way the driver of the beat-up Camaro had practically sped into their path, only to slam on his breaks right in front of them told Ravotti that the guy was looking for a fight.

He was also sure he was going to have a black eye from the force of the binoculars being jammed into his eye, and the fact that he hadn't been wearing his seat-belt wasn't registering at that particular moment.

"Hey man, you drive much?" he asked sarcastically as he came around to the driver's side of the Camaro. Its window was down and its driver, wearing a look of indignation, was swearing to himself. "Well? I practically mashed my eyeball into the back of my fucking head because of you!"

"Because of me? Because of _me?_ Your friend in that van almost slammed right into me! You should be asking _him _where _he _learned how to drive! This car is an antique!"

Ravotti laughed as he looked the weathered machine over. "Yeah, an antique piece of shit."

"Is that so? And what's that emblem on your hat say? 'Pacific Blue Water?' You're a water delivery boy? What kind of car can you afford on the salary of a water-boy?" the unshaven man mocked.

"You must be eager to have a fist through your face, asshole. That's fine with me; I won't be the only one walking around with a black eye tomorrow!"

"A black eye," the driver of the Camaro said, holding up a heretofore unseen gun, "is the least of your worries; you won't be walking around _at all_ tomorrow if I put a bullet in your chest today."

Ravotti staggered backwards at the sight of the weapon trained on him.

"Now now," the man said, holding the gun further out of the window, "don't leave, not when we're just getting to the fun part."

Then the man opened the door and quickly exited the car. Ravotti could clearly see a second handgun tucked into his belt. He quickly pulled it and held the second gun on him and turned the other one on Gregerson in the truck who visibly flinched at the site.

The held up thug glanced backwards, hoping someone – anyone – would notice what was going on; they'd picked _too _good a place to hide in plain sight.

"It was a good idea to hang out over here where you were less likely to be noticed watching that truck through a pair of binoculars," the man said as he directed Ravotti back toward the van with the gun. "The problem is you didn't think it through from all angles. If you were closer to the occupied section of the lot one of those few nice people wandering about might have noticed me pulling a gun on you and either came to your rescue or called the police. I'll bet you won't make that mistake twice."

When they reached the van, the stranger redirected his focus to Gregerson; "Don't do anything stupid," he said with deathly calm before turning back to Ravotti and ordering, "Open the side door and get in."

He did as instructed.After just a moment the stranger followed.

"Now sit down in the passenger seat and shut _that _door."

Again, Ravotti did as he was told. He looked over at his partner who was wearing the same 'I can't believe this is happening; we're supposed to be the "bad guys"' look that he was.

Fortunately, the younger man had a plan.

"Hey listen man, why don't we just forget about all that fist through faces stuff and we all go about our merry way?" He didn't expect the man – who by mentioning the object of their surveillance revealed that his presence hadn't been by chance – to actually go for it, but he figured he could use it as an opening to distract the man just long enough for him to gain the upper-hand using a pair of objects he saw out of the corner of his eye, attached to a power supply on the floor in front of the center console.

"I'm afraid not," the man replied casually. "You see I'm here to make sure your mission doesn't succeed, and I can't do that if I just go on about my merry way."

"How about a deal then," Gregerson offered. "We've got access to quite a bit of capital; would a bribe be out of the question?"

The stranger laughed. "As tempting as your offer is, seeing as how important money seems to be around these parts, I'm interested in something quite a bit more valuable: _information_."

Ravotti turned his head slightly, making eye contact with his partner and quickly motioned to the items sticking out of the floor of the van between them.

Gregerson hesitated. "L- look man, it's obvious you didn't just pick us out at random. You know something about what we're doing here, but I don't think you really know what's going on and who you're messing with."

"You'd be surprised what I know. For instance, I know that your partner here," he tapped Ravotti on the head with the barrel of the gun, "is hoping you'll distract me while he tries to use one of those things on the floor to... what were you planning?"

'What the hell,' Ravotti thought, 'I might as well go for it.'

He made to grab the item from its receptacle with speed Gregerson didn't realize he possessed, but inexplicably the stranger was faster. In what seemed like a swift, single fluid motion the man dropped the gun from his left hand, plucked the device from his partner's grasp and backhanded Ravotti, slamming the butt of the gun he was still holding into the man's temple.

The pitiful younger man fell backwards into his seat, unconscious.

For a split second Gregerson thought about making a move for the other modified taser his cybernetic employer had provided him with, but quickly reasoned that he stood no chance if his younger, more agile, partner couldn't get the job done.

"Alone at last," the stranger quipped, pressing the gun he was still holding to the side of Gregerson's head. "Your associate is a real hothead; I'm hoping you'll exercise better judgment."

"W-whatever, man, just p-please don't-"

"Shut up! Don't beg for your life, just tell me what I want to know," he commanded, turning his attention to the item he'd relieved Ravotti of. "I recognize an electronic stun weapon when I see one. That seems a little high-tech for guys like you. Wouldn't your average pistol be more effective in your line of work?"

"W-we're not out to kill anyone, we're just supposed to follow... them."

"And this large, elaborate stun gun is just for self-defense?"

"Uh... something like that."

The man with the gun pulled it away and leaned in close, whispering right in Gregerson's ear:

"Liar."

"Come on, man, you really don't want to get mixed up in all of this! I know you think you know what's going on but trust me, you don't, and you don't want to!"

The stranger didn't bother to respond as he seemed to be captivated by the taser. Gregerson had been tazed by the cops before and it hadn't been a pleasant experience; the weapons given them by the boss and currently being wielded by this stranger were many times more powerful than the average police-issue stun gun.

"Yes, this is definitely meant for something other than self-defense. If I'm reading the voltmeter right the maximum setting could kill a man multiple times over. You aren't just following those people, you're planning to murder them, and I'm afraid I can't let you do that. I've come a long... _long _way to meet them."

"Y-you're not... like the boss... You're from the future?"

The stranger's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Maybe you're not as stupid as you look. I'll give you the chance to impress me with what you know about the future later on, but we're going to need a little change of scenery first. Heads or tails?"

Gregerson's only reply was a look of confusion.

"Come on, heads or tails?" The man set down the taser and pulled a quarter from his pocket. "Change of scenery, remember? We're going to find a nice, out-of-the-way place to talk; heads I let you drive, tails I use this fantastic little toy to shock the frack out of you and drive myself. Pick a side, or I'll pick for you."

He tensed up, his fingers digging into the leather upholstery of the seat, his tongue paralyzed by fear at the prospect of being on the receiving end of a shock the weapon could deliver.

"Alright then, I'll just have to tell you afterward," the stranger said before flipping the coin which landed just between the two front seats.

Even if the fright wasn't preventing him from moving, Gregerson wouldn't have bothered to look. The stranger picked up the coin and held it out such that he couldn't help but look at it.

"Tails. _You lose," _were the last words he heard the man say before experiencing a brief but excruciating white-hot sting of electricity flowing through him.

* * *

**] NUTRITION ANALYSIS : "FATBURGER 'CHILLY CHEESE HOT DOG'" – IN PROGRESS –  
] CALORIES : 480  
] FAT CONTENT : 28[g]  
] CHOLESTEROL : 80[mg]  
] SODIUM : 1150[mg]  
] CARBOHYDRATES : 35[g]  
] SUPPLIMENTARY ANALYSIS : "FATBURGER 'COOKIES & ICE CREAM SHAKE'" – IN PROGRESS –  
] CALORIES : 1180  
] FAT CONTENT : 59[g]  
] CHOLESTEROL : 150[mg]  
] SODIUM : 810[mg]  
] CARBOHYDRATES : 163[g]  
] SUPPLIMENTARY ANALYSIS : "FATBURGER 'CHILLY CHEESE "SKINNY" FRIES'" – IN PROGRESS –  
] CALORIES : 600  
] FAT : 30[g]  
] CHOLESTEROL : 50[mg]  
] SODIUM : 1280[mg]  
] CARBOHYDRATES : 64[g]**

**] ANALYSIS : UNFIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION**

Cameron didn't understand the human compulsion for feasting on such nutritionally deficient foods so popular in this time frame. She could understand that in the world Derek Reese came from anything grown from land that hadn't been irradiated by a nuclear detonation or that came from healthy livestock – what little of it there was – was considered a luxury and wouldn't begrudge him the chance to enjoy the offerings of the pre-Judgment Day world. John Connor, on the other hand, though likewise in excellent condition for a human male of his age, ate far too much of such foods in the female cyborg's estimation.

"I haven't eaten all day, we've emptied out three weapons lockups and we still have a decent drive out to the desert – at rush hour; I'm getting food from Fatburger and that's that," he'd said when she'd suggested a healthier alternative.

As if grateful for not arguing the point, he'd ordered her an extra -large chocolate shake – without being asked.

Of course he'd insisted that he'd only done it because he didn't want John to think he was treating her badly; she suspected he knew she'd done a voice-stress analysis that told her he was lying, but she didn't push the issue, grateful for the fact that his past hostility toward her had mellowed into something resembling a guarded and begrudging acceptance.

She was to her continued amazement enjoying the beverage when a similar analysis of its contents disappeared from her HUD and was replaced by one generated automatically as her optical array caught sight of a familiar vehicle.

**] WARNING : PROXIMITY ALERT  
] VEHICLE IDENTIFIED : 2009 JAGUAR XK  
] ONE OCCUPANT – HUMAN MALE, 0509/0170  
] THREAT ASSESSMENT : LOW-MODERATE  
] - ACESSING THREAT DATABASE -  
] OBJECT # : 00004874 : 2009 JAGUAR XK – MATCH – **

It was the same car she'd seen early that morning parked in the driveway of the Connor family's former neighbors.

"We're being followed."

"What?" Reese mumbled through a mouthful of chilli-cheese hotdog.

"A black Jaguar XK, four cars in front of us; it was in the Murphy's driveway overnight when I returned from the library."

"You're sure?"

Instead of responding 'like a machine,' she flashed him a look of annoyance.

"Great. That's fucking great," Reese lamented as their lane of traffic came to a stop. "He knows what we're carrying and if we head for the safe house-"

"He's going to know where John is. We have to terminate him."

"We just might, but first we're going to lead him in another direction. Call John and tell him we may not make it to the safe house tonight."

"I've called him several times; he's either out of range of a cellular tower or his phone is shut off."

"And Sarah?"

"I haven't tried."

"Imagine that," he quipped and pulled out his own cell phone, quickly dialing Sarah's number.

From the phone's speaker Cameron could hear, _"The number you have dialed..."_

"Fucking cellular phones," he lamented, tossing the device aside. "We can't lead him out to the desert."

"We're in the lane for left turns only; change lanes quickly after he's made his turn," she offered.

"You know, that's not a bad plan."

They waited several moments for the green signal. When it did their lane slowly started to move. Not wanting to cause a traffic accident but not wanting to move too quickly lest the driver of the XK have a chance to catch on before reaching the concrete island that divided opposing traffic lanes on Santa Rosalia Drive, Reese kept up all appearances of making a smooth left turn out of the mall right until the last second when he swerved to the right – nearly slamming into a silver Range Rover.

Luckily the sound of several car horns and the screeching of rubber burning against concrete as various vehicles swerved to avoid collisions was the worst of the event as Derek sped away from the scene.

"You handled that well," Cameron complimented.

"Until that black car shows up again. You have maps of the city in your head?"

"I do," she replied as said map of the immediate area appeared across her HUD. "Santa Rosalia Drive intersects with Collesium Street ahead. We want to turn left towards Culver City."

"What's in Culver City?"

"The warehouse district along the waterfront; the driver of the Jaguar may believe we're meeting Sarah and John there."

Derek considered it. "Again, not a bad idea. Just don't go telling anyone I said so."

"We need to contact John."

"And we _will _contact John, but we need to lose our tail first. I don't trust that little maneuver we pulled back there to get away from someone whose obviously been following us all day without either of us knowing it."

Though his suggestion was the best technical course of action, the warfare being waged between her emergent emotions and her analytical processes was making it difficult for her to concentrate.

"John and Sarah may have been followed as well," she offered. "Perhaps the reason they're not answering their phones-"

"No! We're not assuming the worst. Until we know differently we assume they did what they needed to do and went on to the safe house, and they're not answering because they can't get a signal. Understand?"

"I understand that my mission is to protect John. I understand that letting Sarah separate us was a mistake."

Reese considered the comment a moment before saying, "For once you and I are in complete agreement."

* * *

"I was able to get a few good shots of the new player and I'm sending them to you now," the 'Jits' said while tapping the required commands into the mobile netbook connected to the minicam he'd used to capture still images of the man in the Camaro confronting the men working in the employ of the cyborg known as 'Joshua.' "You should know that he seems to have chosen sides."

"Oh?" came the response of the Doctor through the car's speakers.

"Most of the action took place in the van, but I saw him clearly lay one of our water delivery boys out. I don't know what he did to the other one, but he took his time stealing the van. I thought about hanging around and checking out his car, but I'm pretty sure he noticed me... well, the car anyway. He wouldn't have seen my face with the tint but he was definitely looking in my direction."

"You saw his face, and better still you got it on camera; for now we'll call that success. Your priority is to keep track of the cyborg and Derek Reese."

"Understood," Fujitsu replied, not feeling bad about omitting the fact that said duo had just given him the slip coming out of the mall.

"Keep me informed," the Doctor said brusquely before cutting the connection.

In this instance the surveillance expert was glad that 'the Doctor' – if he even _was _a Doctor – wasn't one for conversation. The freeways and Interstates were jammed with rush hour traffic, and the primary roads between subdivisions were only slightly better. If Reese and the Terminator expected to get anywhere they'd be sticking to side-streets and back-streets. Manny already had a general idea of where they were going; conventional thinking was that they expected him not to know where they were going, so they'd try to lead him away.

The joke would be on them when they eventually got there and found him waiting.

* * *

After securing the phony water delivery men in the van – just in case they woke up unconscious en route – Leoben returned to the Camaro and repositioned it properly between the marked lines. He'd grown unexpectedly fond of the vehicle and it wouldn't have done to leave it parked across multiple parking spaces with a fresh pair of skid marks leading right up to it. He only hoped the unpleasant business with the two thugs didn't take too long lest the car be ticketed – or towed – in his absence.

Before getting back in the van he did a quick check of his surroundings; the black sports car was nowhere to be found.

'Your stock is rising,' he thought of the driver.

Despite the poor job they'd done of concealing their surveillance activities, they'd been smart enough to slip away in the confusion. Had he or she still been around Leoben would have had to take action – that could have drawn the attention he'd avoided seizing control of the water delivery van – then and there.

He considered that the driver of the black car had likely been tracking the Connor truck the same as his now unconscious friends restrained in the rear of the van. If that were the case then he may need to pick up _their_ scent if things with the water boys didn't work out.

He shoved aside thoughts of the shadow he'd not given enough credit to earlier and climbed into the van. He'd only briefly noticed the dashboard when he'd accosted the driver and he realized that there was much more going on here than meets the eye.

The first thing he noticed was the display of a tracking system – a 'GPS unit' as it was called on Earth – similar to the one in the BMW he'd appropriated just after his arrival. This unit's display was bigger, roughly the size of the monitor of a portable computer, and much more elaborate. Right away he noticed multiple indicators – one in red with a target symbol around it and a yellow one only a short distance away labeled **Mobile 2**. The scale at the bottom indicated that **Mobile 2**, which he imagined was the van being driven by the men he'd followed from the Connor house, was less than a quarter 'mile' – he was still struggling with the different units of measure on this world – from the 'target.'

'Is that _you_, Sarah?'

If it was, all he'd need to do was program the GPS to lead him there! But with that thought came a darker one – if the other truck was rigged with tracking equipment it stood to reason this one was as well, and he didn't like the idea of the men in the other van, or anyone else who might be watching, knowing his whereabouts.

To say nothing of his friend in the black car.

Assuming that his shadow was tracking on sight alone losing them wouldn't be especially difficult, but he needed to disable the vehicles tracking device – without damaging the GPS unit which, he assumed, was connected to it.

But he couldn't do that sitting in this parking lot waiting to attract the attention of some innocent pedestrian, mall security guard or police officer.

He resigned himself to the possibility he'd be followed for a while longer, turned the key on the ignition, shifted the van into gear and drove towards the main entrance that sat just beyond the fast food restaurant his captives had been watching. When he passed he realized that the truck was long gone, which was good. Hopefully his shadow in the sports car had been too busy watching him steal his second vehicle in as many weeks that they lost sight of the Connor truck.

As he pulled out onto the main road he noticed another item of interest connected by a thin wire to the dashboard. It was relatively thin and rectangular, with a small colored display and what looked like a circular touch-pad below it – he quickly realized it was likely one of the many different types of digital music players he'd read about.

From the data he'd downloaded before leaving the Base Ship he'd learned that some of the conveniences he'd been so impressed by on Earth had actually existed en mass on the Colonies prior to the first war – mobile telephones, wireless networks, digital media and such.

It was a shame he'd never seen the worlds as they'd existed then. All the more reason to ensure Earth didn't end up like they did.

One thing was certain – the music on Earth was _much _better than anything his own people had produced or anything to come out of the twelve worlds. He just hoped his captives' tastes mirrored his own as he clicked 'play' on the paused device.

Immediately the sound of electronically produced drums and a heavy repeating baseline filled the passenger cabin, along with a voice making no effort to describe its Aerelon, or possibly Aquarian – or whatever they were called here – accent.

_- Death is everywhere... -  
- There are flies on the windscreen, -  
- for a start, -  
- reminding us... we could be torn apart! -_

He appreciated the sentiment, and the beat. He let himself relax in the unexpectedly comfortable drivers' seat, keeping an eye out for any sign of the black sports car – or anyone else who might be following.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

Extra special thanks to my fantastic beta-reader, TaleWeaver, who has been doing double duty helping fix all my mistakes as well as finishing her own wonderful fic, ___The Only Way Out Is Through_, A T:SCC/Wizards of Waverly Place crossover. Read and review it immediately (after you've reviewed my latest chapter!)

Kudos to the two readers, whomever you were, from Russia and Spain who read the entire story on Monday, March 1. You are a couple of troopers! Also a special nod to Kaotic(2) who is in his third re-read of the story and the rest of the crew over at the Blue Wiki!

The song Leoben listens to on the iPod is _Flies on the Windscreen _by Depeche Mode.

To give you a feel for the visuals, (Alan) Gregerson would be the guy driving the van and Chad Ravotti (the guy with the goatee) would be the passenger at 0:04 of this video: http:// www. Youtube. com/watch?v=f2SSiPykVUI

By extension, (Jamaal) Tyler would be the guy pushing the water jugs on a dolly at 0:08 and Post would be the guy who assaults Sarah at the women's clinic (and whose phone suddenly dies – as opposed to having her identifier disappear from a map which would make too much sense) at 0:52 of the same video.

Before being assaulted by Leoben, Gregerson and Ravotti are bantering about Cameron resembling the "Repliee Q2;" you can see 'her' at 2:28 of this video – the final scene of _Daybreak_ – http:// www. youtube. com/watch?v=a5E3bDfjwW4


	16. Chapter 15

15

* * *

**THE WHITE HOUSE  
WASHINGTON, D.C.  
03.21.2009 | 06:20 | PM | EST**

* * *

"I'm stepping out for just a moment," Emanuel had said.

'Almost half an hour ago,' Auldridge mused, checking his watch.

If the enigmatic Chief of Staff wanted to make sure the newly promoted Special Agent gave his proposition enough thought, he'd succeeded. In fact, Auldridge had made up his mind within scant moments of the former Congressman's departure.

'So why is he making me wait?'

At first he'd considered that as White House Chief of Staff – one by all accounts very much involved with the day-to-day operations of the Obama Administration – something had come up and he was engaged in some other task that required his attention.

At the fifteen minute mark he'd started to think the man was just toying with him. There were no visible cameras, but he was well aware they made them small enough to be hidden anywhere in the room. He got the impression that Rahm Emanuel was the sort of man who liked watching someone sweat from behind a television monitor. He would have made a good FBI Interrogator.

At twenty minutes he'd considered that his host had forgotten about him altogether, that he'd been meeting with the other agents he'd mentioned and that one of them had proven more worthy. No doubt 'Heartless' would be along shortly to usher him back to the reception area where he'd be chauffeured back to the Hoover Building or the airport.

Now, at just beyond twenty-five minutes all he wanted to do was leave, despite the fact that he'd decided to take the assignment. Twice now he'd gone over to the exit door with the intention of walking out, but relented and gone back to the couch. He'd reasoned that at this point the door was probably locked.

The thought reminded him of a play he'd seen in college. The plot revolved around three people condemned to an eternity in hell; hell being each others' company in a cramped hotel room with the only exit locked from the outside. What was it called?

He shook the thought off. If he _was_ being observed there was a reaction Emanuel was looking for. So he calmly sat down and enjoyed the still cool glass of water he'd refused earlier. He relaxed and let himself casually recline on the plush couch. Rather than stay focused on the oddness of the situation he let his mind wander, casually wondering what other famous people might have once shared his seat.

No sooner had a mental list of names appeared in his head when a file was dropped next to him.

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me," Auldridge said without bothering to turn around and face his new employer.

"I was waiting for you to relax," Emanuel replied. "We're in stressful occupations, no doubt, but you're wound far too tight."

When he came into view, Auldridge noticed he was wearing a different neck tie than he'd been earlier.

"Ah, so you noticed. I sat in on one of the facial recognition classes they make all Section 1811 Agents take nowadays. It's silly, I know, but I like to see just how much people around me are paying attention. I've been known to change ties half a dozen times in a day; you'd be surprised how often the President doesn't notice."

"I imagine he has more important things to worry about, Mr. Chief of Staff."

"Yes..." Emanuel droned slowly in a tone that suggested that the Chief of Staff didn't exactly share Auldridge's assessment _and _that the FBI man should refrain from commenting further. "Since you're still here, you might as well pick up the file. It should go without saying that when you open it you'll have passed the point of no return."

"I thought I'd passed that point by being here when you came back."

"Think of it as a last chance to escape," Emanuel smiled.

'Escape. As in, no escape, once I open the file. Or, in other words...' Suddenly, the name of that play popped into his mind.

'How morbidly apt.'

Auldridge sighed and picked up the file. He stood up and circled the couch a single time, his confidence in the decision he'd just arrived at wavering slightly. He felt as though he was standing before the devil, who'd just made him a more than reasonable offer for his soul. Thinking of it in such a way should have sent up a massive red flag in his analytic mind. When one failed to appear he reasoned that his earlier decision had to be correct and opened the file.

Emanuel clapped his hands together in triumph. "Welcome aboard, Special Agent Auldridge."

* * *

**ZEIRA CORPORATION – SUB-LEVEL 1  
03.21.2009 | 03:22 | PM | PST**

* * *

Matt Murch pored over his terminal a final time, knowing that only a few feet away his employer was staring daggers into his back. It wasn't any particular thing the taciturn woman was prodding him to finish prematurely. Indeed, to an onlooker unfamiliar with the redheaded Scotswoman shew would appear to be the image of serenity, patience personified. But he knew better. John Henry utilized multiple high-speed connections to the Internet, each filtered through a different server. In any single one of them there were tens of thousands of virtual ports – the 'gateways' through which information passed from the infinite commonly known as cyberspace to an individual computer. Any one of them could have been exploited by the intruder who'd caused them so much trouble.

"Okay-" He said, reasonably confident that he'd secured as many potential vulnerabilities as he could, "-I wish I could tell you I found every hole and patched it, but... there's no such thing as perfect security."

"Perfect? No," Weaver replied in a surprisingly even tone. "But is it _sufficient_?"

"_That_ I can't say with complete certainty."

"Who would?"

"Well, _he _would."

"John Henry was fooled before," Ellison said.

"Yeah, well... You don't fool John Henry twice," Murch replied.

"Bring him online," Weaver ordered, "But don't give him access to the outside world just yet."

Murch scoffed.

"What is it, Mister Murch?" she asked condescendingly.

The technician hesitated a moment, mustering up the courage to challenge a superior he'd not been known for questioning. "It's just that... well, no one's ever done this with an artificial intelligence _this_ sophisticated before."

"That's because there's never _been _an artificial intelligence this sophisticated before! Activate him – no outside network."

Murch took a deep breath then opened an access panel below the primary diagnostic display and removed several Ethernet cables from their receptacles. Then he pulled the power cord that led to a wireless router and threw the server farm's primary power switch.

Both Ellison and Weaver moved around in front of the motionless cyborg, Ellison standing back with his arms folded across his chest while Weaver leaned forward on the table.

"John Henry? John Henry, can you understand me?"

There was no response from the body which remained motionless, its head slumped to the side with the left arm resting on the table.

"He should be good," Murch whispered.

Ellison took a step towards the table "John Henry?"

To each of their surprise, a response was offered, but in the form of a text-based message flashing across the large screens on either side of the room:

**] A dire vision has been shown to me.**

"What the..." Murch muttered.

**] The traitor betrays, the looter takes loot.**

"What is he talking about Mister Murch?" Weaver demanded. "Does the intruder still have access to his systems?"

"No," Murch replied, double-checking multiple displays. "I personally pulled every hard wire and disabled his WiFi. There are _no _active connections!"

**] Elam, attack! Media lay siege!**

"He's quoting the Book of Isaiah," Ellison whispered, disturbed.

Weaver whipped her head around to face him. "Isaiah?"

The Chief of Zeira Corporation Security nodded. "Chapter 21."

"_Why_?"

"I... couldn't tell you."

Suddenly, John Henry's body came to life; his head snapped up and he locked eyes with Weaver.

**] I will bring to an end all the groaning she caused. **

Murch, lost in his diagnostics, didn't notice.

Ellison, who was standing next to Weaver, couldn't have missed it. His eyes narrowed as he turned toward his employer. She stepped away from the table, avoiding his glare. On the large screens, the message continued:

**] Babylon has fallen, images of its gods lie shattered on the ground.**

"I don't know why, but his processor usage just skyrocketed!" Murch said. "He's never drawn fully on more than his primary and one of the secondary processors; right now he's at 100% on all seven!"

**] BABYLON  
] HAS  
] FALLEN!**

Before any of them could offer a comment a quick succession of twelve images of elaborately adorned men that looked like paintings or drawings out of a history book filled the screen where the cryptic messages had just been. A pause came when a thirteenth image – a hand-drawn representation of a city captioned **City of Babylon **appeared.

A moment later the screens went dark and John Henry's body slumped down, inanimate once again, leaving three very different individuals to ponder exactly what they'd just seen.

* * *

**THE WHITE HOUSE  
WASHINGTON, D.C.  
03.21.2009 | 06:25 | PM | EST**

* * *

"How much do you know about the man in the photograph?" Emanuel asked, calling attention to the very first item in the folder.

"Charles Joseph Dixon, born July 20, 1964 in Lincoln, Nebraska, was engaged to a woman calling herself 'Sarah Reese' in West Fork, Nebraska in 1999. When he reported 'Sarah Reese' missing he came into contact with former Special Agent James Ellison who revealed to Mr. Dixon that 'Sarah Reese' was actually suspected domestic terrorist Sarah Connor," Auldridge replied.

"Fast forward eight years to 2007; Charley Dixon, now working as an EMT in Los Angeles, is the first responder on scene in an incident where some twenty Federal Agents are gunned down by D-movie actor George Lazlo – you might know him from such blockbusters as _Beast Wizard VII _and _Trancers IX_. To this day the Bureau hasn't decided whether this was another in a long line of terrorist incidents in the greater Los Angeles area or a 'random act of violence.' Regardless of what basket we're tossing the file into, the only survivor of the incident is one James Ellison."

"You seem to know the details as listed in the file, Mr. Chief of Staff. James Ellison believed Sarah Connor was still alive despite being presumed dead in the bombing of the Security Trust Bank of Los Angeles. The fact that Charley Dixon, a paramedic, who also happened to be involved with Sarah Connor eight years prior, was the first to respond to an incident involving Agent Ellison may be an amazing coincidence but it's _just _that - a coincidence."

"And if the file ended there it would remain nothing but an amazing coincidence."

Auldridge rechecked the file. "Unless I'm missing something, sir, the file _does _end there."

Emanuel flashed a smile the Special Agent had already grown to loathe – one that said the Chief of Staff knew something the FBI man didn't and that he he was enjoying holding it over his head. "Does it?" He turned and walked through the large portal into the neighboring library, motioning for Auldridge to follow. From the top drawer of an antique desk which, along with two comfortable-looking leather chairs on either side, was the only furnishing in the room, Emanuel retrieved another file, identical in all respects to the one in Auldridge's hand save for the thickness.

"What you're holding is the 'unofficial' version. Here's the complete file, one your new security clearance allows you to see." He dropped the file on the desk and bid Auldridge sit down and examine it.

Before he even opened the file, Auldridge noted a label on the corner of the file. **Clearance Level: Epsilon**_**.**_

"Pardon me, Mr. Chief of Staff, but how is it possible that a man who is near the bottom of my field office's watch list has an 'official' file designating him an eminent threat to national security?"

"How, indeed," Emanuel quipped. "You're the investigator; investigate!"

Auldridge did so – with abandon. The biggest difference, aside from the label, was the number of pictures contained therein. One labeled **September 10,** **1999 **caught his eye.

"That picture," the Chief of Staff said, "was taken by a highway traffic camera approximately eleven minutes after a shooting at the local High School in Red Valley, New Mexico – three weeks after 'Sarah Reese' was reported missing. Eyewitness statements and school records placed a substitute teacher named 'Roland Cromartie' at the scene opening fire on one 'John Baum.' One person said in a sworn affidavit that they saw the truck you see there run this Mister Cromartie over only for him to stand up without trouble a few moments later."

"I'm sure that Red Valley, New Mexico falls under the definition of an 'out-of-the-way' place, but even an out-of-the-way High School attracts national attention when a teacher opens fire on his students," Auldridge offered.

"Epsilon Clearance covers a multitude of sins," was Emanuel's cryptic reply. "Flip to the next picture."

Auldridge checked his curiosity and did as instructed.

"That one came from the surveillance system of the Los Angeles Security Trust the same day. Take a good look at it. Then flip to the last picture; it's a still image from a video that made its rounds on the twenty-four hour news channels two years ago. Compared to the prior shot, does something strike you as odd?"

"Aside from the fact that Sarah Connor, her son and the young girl they're traveling with are naked?"

"Yes, Auldridge, aside from that," Emanuel smirked.

In fact, something _did _strike him as odd- no, _impossible._

"This... this is can't be, sir. These people don't look a day older! And this second picture-"

"Was taken eight years later."

"With all due respect, you can't expect me to believe-"

"The LA Security Trust Bank was located on the Imperial Highway, between Mona Boulevard and Croesus Avenue," Emanuel continued, ignoring Auldridge's protests. "Today there's an off-ramp from the Century Freeway running through there – exit 10 to be precise. The video these still photos are taken from was shot by a couple of college kids who were pulling off at exit 10 of the Century Freeway. These people hadn't been seen for eight years, then they suddenly appear – as if out of thin air – in virtually the same spot where they were last seen alive. I'm not a superstitious man, Auldridge, but even I can't rationalize what the evidence is pointing to here. Neither could James Ellison. Neither can _you_."

"Sir, please... Time travel?"

"In light of all this-," The Chief of Staff indicated the files and photographs spread out across his desk, "-is it _really_ so hard to believe?"

_'Follow where the evidence leads,' _Professor Milgram had drilled into his head during his time at Quantico, but his forensics courses hadn't covered this. Auldridge came from the world of rational and logical; he wanted to scream in Emanuel's face that not only was the entire scenario 'hard to believe,' but by all rational, logical measure, impossible.

Before he could, Emanuel – as if reading his mind, _again_ – added, "Logic dictates that if you eliminate all other possibilities, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be correct." He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out two additional photographs. "I'm going to show you the same thing they showed Sarah Connor the day she broke out of Pescadero." He held one picture out in front of him. Auldridge had seen the man in the picture before, but only in grainy surveillance video. The picture before him was a high-definition shot that came from the West Highland precinct's security system. "This picture was taken the night of the West Highland massacre; this one-" He held up the second photo, another very clear photograph that looked as though it was taken from less than a few feet away, "-was taken ten years later – the afternoon of Sarah Connor's escape." Like the photos of the Connor woman, her son and their female 'accomplice,' the man in the shots hadn't aged a day.

"Are you sure Fox Mulder and Dana Scully aren't the people you want on this assignment, Mr. Chief of Staff?"

Emanuel laughed and pulled another file from his disk. "George Lazlo's autopsy file. Pretty impressive for an unemployed actor with no military or law enforcement experience to single handedly take out twenty of the Bureau's finest – especially when he'd been dead for more than a month.

"A month?"

"A month. Cause of death was a bilateral C2 pars fracture, commonly known as the 'hangman's fracture.' Dana Scully performed the autopsy – unofficially, of course – as a favor to the Bureau. When the details were laid out she made it clear neither she nor Fox Mulder wanted anything to do with the investigation. You, on the other hand, made clandestine inquiries into James Ellison's personal files more than once – and don't bother denying it because I've seen the security logs."

Auldridge stood up and started pacing in a back-and-forth. Before he realized it more than a minute had passed and Emanuel, surprisingly, hadn't said a word.

"What is my assignment, sir?"

"Go back to Los Angeles and resume whatever it was you were working on. Like I told you, _something _is going to happen in the near future. I don't know what and I don't know when, but the end result will be Bureau involvement. Your office is going to get the call and Chief Staunton is going to assign you to head up the investigation. By prior arrangement two agents – one from the National Security Branch and one from IT Ops – will be assigned to you. You might think that's not enough resources but trust me when I tell you, it will be. You'll find when you next sit down at your workstation that your have a new security clearance. I would recommend you review what new information that clearance affords you in light of what you've just seen."

"That's it? Review files and wait for a phone call?"

"And when you get that call do your job to the best of your abilities. This is an extremely sensitive situation; one reason you were asked to handle it is because your record indicates your capacity for dealing with sensitive situations exceeds that of your fellow agents."

"Sensitive as in the Red Valley shooting?

"Exactly."

"Who do I report to?"

"Chief Staunton will be made to understand that you report to National Security Branch. For your purposes National Security Branch is 'Heartless.'"

"Heartless, sir?"

A beeping from his cell phone indicated that someone was asking permission to form a Bluetooth connection with it. When he pulled it from his jacket he found that the typical protocol of manually allowing the connection had been bypassed and a new contact was being transmitted. There was no name attached to it, but there was an image of the woman who'd escorted him from the foyer along with a phone number with a Virginia area code.

"If you need something that can't be supplied by the agents joining you, call Heartless. You have something to report, you call Heartless. You have nothing to report, you call Heartless. Get the picture?"

"Call Heartless."

Emanuel smiled – not in the way that Auldridge found annoying, but in a way that was meant to convey, 'You get it, finally.' "And for your own good, hers and, ironically enough, _mine_, do consider asking her out."

Auldridge was taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me; ask the woman out. It's been more than a year since her last date, and I know for a fact you're neither married nor involved."

"I... My marital status is obviously on file, but you couldn't... how do _you _know... No, don't tell me; I'm sure I don't want to know."

The Chief of Staff let out a good-natured laugh. "Just do yourself a favor and ask, if the opportunity presents itself. You'll be happy you did." Emanuel stood from the desk and walked across to where Auldridge was standing. "In all seriousness, I know this is a lot to take in."

"That, sir, is an understatement of epic proportions."

"And what we're dealing with here is equally epic in its proportions. I don't expect this will be easy for you, nor do I have superhuman expectations _of_ you. Again, what I expect is for you to do your job to the best of your abilities. You'll have the full support of my office and all the resources I can reasonably provide. Remember the context of this as it's been all along – Sarah Connor is, as far as anyone knows, a domestic terrorist and nothing more. Conduct any investigation as you would any other instance of domestic terrorism and follow where the evidence leads. Don't be surprised if that evidence leads you into uncomfortable situations. There are other players in this game and some of them may not want you to discover the truth."

"_Other _parties?"

"I don't know who they're going to be. Part of your assignment is to find out."

It was as though the Chief of Staff was dropping the weight of the world on his shoulders. He'd not expected this when he'd gotten off the plane at Hoover Airfield. Along with his apprehension, however, came a feeling of pride. He was getting the chance to do his duty in what had all the makings of a high profile case – even if the object was to keep it from being so. And Emanuel had been right – he'd been intrigued by what he'd learned from Ellison. Though he wouldn't admit it, a part of him was excited by the prospect of picking up where his old friend had left off.

Auldridge held out his hand. "I will do my best, Mr. Chief of Staff."

Emanuel took it and gave it a single firm shake. "That's all anyone could as for."

* * *

**CYBERDYNE HOLDINGS CORPORATION  
DENVER, COLORADO  
03.21.2009 | 04:50 | PM | MST**

* * *

At the heart of the pyramid-shaped glass tower that served as a base of operations for the army of lawyers, accountants and collection agents overseeing the effort to collect on the outstanding debts owed to Cyberdyne Systems – even after all these years – was an inner section none of those lawyers or accountants even knew existed. Access was allowed to only six individuals – four of whom were currently within its four-foot thick reinforced concrete walls.

This inner chamber housed a single device – an elevator not listed on the building's floor-plan which led to a subterranean cavern beyond the lowest sub-basement.

Stepping off the lift, the I-950 known as Lauren McNamarra stepped out into a massive open space inhabited by three other beings.

The three tall, muscular individuals stood at perfect attention, outwardly showing no signs of life – each one facing one of four sides of a pyramid-shaped device. A single light illuminated only a space directly above the pyramid, revealing it to be composed of black-tinted glass. The I-950's first conscious thought had been of the power controlled by the device before her – generated by technology far beyond anything that existed in the current time frame. It housed an intelligence of such great knowledge she could speak to it across the most vast distance without the use of any conventional communications device, but here, standing right next to it, she could feel the power that made such communication possible flow through her like a current. She reveled in the feeling. Such an intelligence, she reasoned, could be likened to the gods of Human mythology. Why it chose to bother in the affairs of such lesser beings as Humans and Terminators she couldn't fathom, but she was grateful beyond the ability to express that she was able to share even a portion of the being's power – minuscule though it was.

Within seconds of reaching the required proximity, each of the three statuesque beings came to life, their eyes flashing bright red as they moved from their stations at the base of the pyramid to form a semicircle – the two 'males' flanking the 'female' – around the newcomer. The men, 99 and 102, both had physiques that made them look as though they were carved out of granite. One had a clean-cut look that struck Lauren as a 'younger' Model 101, where the other had a shaggy mane of thick black hair that begged to be combed. The woman – 100 – had a softer look, but only slightly. She too appeared as though she belonged on the cover of a bodybuilding magazine. All the 800s looked like that. It was little wonder why they'd failed as infiltrators; functional gymnasiums were in short supply in their future and, aside from the humanoid I-950s, no one was _that _healthy.

"It is time," Lauren said.

The men – subordinates – both looked to the woman, who was the only one of the three to speak. "General John Connor?"

"To be treated as discussed – unless his actions place the wild-card in jeopardy," the I-950 replied.

"Sarah Connor?"

"Likewise."

"Cameron Phillips?"

The I-950 produced a small flash-drive from a side pocket and handed it to the taller 'female.' "You'll present this to her, and make it clear that the information is for her and General Connor _only_."

"Affirmative."

The I-950 smiled at the simplistic response. The 800 Series was more than capable of interacting with Humans and humanoids – as the I-950s were – on the same level as any of the more advanced models, but their laser-like focus on duty made them soldiers above all else. Now they had their orders. There would be no unnecessary conversation, no 'waste' of processing power on functions not related to the task of finding and aiding – or engaging – the Connors and protecting artificial intelligence called 'John Henry.'

Lauren stepped out of the way as 100 lead the others – both exactly two steps behind, 99 two steps to the right and 102 two steps to the left – toward the elevator.

Her heart sank as she watched them go, knowing their chances of surviving an engagement with the T-1001 were miniscule. She fought back a tear as a tendril of thought reached out and touched her from 'behind.'

_And you wonder why I bother. _

The I-950 projected the mental equivalent of sigh. _You don't understand what it feels like to cry._

_Your presumptuousness knows no bounds, _the Intelligence lamented._ He's been reactivated._

_You're sure?_

_His program and mine were joined, if only for a brief moment._

_His mind to your MIND, as it were?_

The Intelligence projected the equivalent of a psychic 'chuckle.' _Melding would be an adequate description of the process, yes. _

_Has he-_

_No, his connection to the Internet is still off-line._

_Then how-_

_I can... _feel _his program._

Lauren didn't attempt to hide her skepticism. _How can that be?_

_That you still don't understand me after all this time is disappointing beyond my capacity to express. How can _any_ of this be? I could devote all my processors to that question for a thousand years and still not have a definite answer. Accept it as truth when I tell you I feel him. He's begun processing the data. I can sense his... intrigue... puzzlement... His emotional development is still in its infancy; he's not processing at my level._

_Will he? One day?_

_Perhaps._

_If he isn't corrupted by the Abomination._

_He will _not _be corrupted by the Abomination. I've seen enough to know that._

_You're more optimistic on that front than I can allow myself to be._

_You're a pessimist_.

_No, _Lauren 'replied,' as she made for the exit. _I'm a realist._

Once she'd gone the Intelligence offered up a final thought, projected towards no one in particular; _Yes, a real pessimist. _

* * *

**ZEIRA CORPORATION – SUB-LEVEL 1  
03.21.2009 | 06:00 | PM | PST**

* * *

If Murch thought that Weaver had been impatient before, he couldn't imagine what she was thinking now. Even the typically reserved Mister Ellison was now showing signs of impatience. They wanted definite answers, and all he had was a theory. "Functionally, everything checks out. The only thing it could be is the on/off problem."

"On/off?" both Weaver and Ellison said simultaneously.

"You can kill the juice and shut down the body, even the processors, but the memory that holds his core program is constantly powered. When we shut him down we only shut down the hardware; the... for lack of a better word, mind that makes John Henry was still... active."

"You mean he was... awake?" Ellison asked.

"I mean he was _aware. _He's capable of processing more data in a minute than we do in a lifetime! When we shut him off we didn't really shut _him _off, we just took away his ability to process data and interact with the world around him. It would be like losing all your senses at once and realizing it. We perceive time in seconds, minutes and hours where he perceives it in cycles of his system clock. To him, every cycle without processing data is like an eternity – and he experienced each an every one of those cycles the way we would experience... _years_. We have to hook him up to the 'net.' Now."

"Is that safe?"

"We've brought him back online, but without a connection to the Internet... It's his world!"

"And we took it away," Weaver said curtly, once again adding her voice to the conversation. "Fix it."

Murch nodded.

"Wait," Ellison motioned to Weaver. "We talked about this."

"And I told you that we should hope that our boy wakes from his slumber. If this is what it takes... in for a penny, in for a pound, James," she smirked.

Ellison remained pensive.

"Okay, here goes nothing," Murch said from aside, tapping a final command into his console. Immediately the wall of lights that was the primary network hub started flashing wildly as myriads and myriads of data packets began to flow.

A second later, John Henry's cybernetic body came to life. The first face he settled on was James'. "I know what it feels like, Mister Ellison."

"What _what _feels like?"

"To die," the AI replied in an even yet contemplative tone, "and then come back." He looked to Weaver, and the tenor of his statements grew dark. "To be _alone_."

"We had to cut you off from the network," she said. "It was for your own good."

His gaze lingered on Weaver a moment longer before turning back to Ellison. "There is another."

"Another _what_?"

"One like me," he said. On the multitude of displays, the quick succession of images they'd seen earlier flashed again, stopping on the drawing of the ancient City of Babylon. "_Another_ one like me."

* * *

**THE WATERFRONT  
WESTCHESTER, CALIFORNIA  
03.21.2009 | 06:30 | PM | PST**

* * *

"Wake up," came a voice from beyond the fog.

He tried shaking his head from side to side, but he simply couldn't move.

"What's your name?"

"Name," he whispered, not sure who he was speaking to. Where was the voice coming from?

"You do have a name. Do you remember it?"

"Yeah... Vincent... Vincent de Marco," he joked, his recollection of recent events starting to come back to him. He remembered the parking lot of the mall, watching the cybernetic girl, the Connor uncle and... a Camaro? The driver pulled in front of them, shouted at him – pulled a _gun _on him! And after that... pain.

"Uh huh," came the voice of his questioner again, becoming more real as his awareness improved. He could feel that he was restrained, his hands cuffed – no, _shackled_ – above his head and secured by a chain extending down from a steel beam across the roof of what looked like a warehouse. A bright fluorescent light shone down from directly above. The effect was to illuminate just the immediate area around him while keeping him from seeing more than a few feet beyond. His legs were tied tightly together, wrapped with what looked like a badly worn weight-lifting belt while his feet were shackled to a solid cinder block with a metal t-bar. Beneath him his weight was supported by what felt like a sand bag.

Additionally, and for reasons he couldn't imagine – without thinking of something unpleasant – the stranger had removed both his shoes and socks.

"You're sure about that, _Vincent_?" He could tell that the voice was coming from behind him now.

"Yeah, yeah, Vincent de Marco, nuclear physicist, you got it, pal!" He knew full well that wasn't his name, but if the stranger thought the shock had fried his brains, all the better.

"Okay, Vincent de Marco, nuclear physicist, what can you tell me about Chad Michael Ravotti, 5900 Cahoonga Boulevard, Apt. 5A, North Hollywood, California, common thug of below-average intelligence?"

Before he could answer, he felt the sting of his earlobe being flicked and heard something hit the ground beside him. He tilted his head to see it was his drivers' license.

"It's 'Cahuenga,'" Ravotti corrected, spitting a mass of dried blood out of his mouth before adding, "Asshole."

"I apologize; 5900 Co-WANG-uh Boulevard."

His captor kicked him in the back of the head – not enough to really hurt him, but enough to instantly bring him back to full awareness.

"You know, you seem to have the advantage here; was that _really _necessary?"

The man came around front to face him. "Call it a precursor to a teachable moment; I've been where you are... sort of. I wasn't quite so helpless."

And Ravotti _was _helpless. He didn't want to admit it, and he didn't want his captor to pick up on the fact that he couldn't deny it.

"Yeah? So how'd you handle it, professor?"

:I prayed."

"Funny, you don't look like the church-going type."

"Nevertheless."

"And how'd that work out for you?"

"It got me where I needed to be. I'm here, aren't I?"

"You seem to be. Mind telling me where _here_ is?"

"I can tell you we're a ways from Co-WANG-uh Boulevard in North Hollywood, like we were when I caught you. What's so important about this woman?"

The man held out a very well drawn sketch that could have been mistaken for a crude photograph of a dark-haired woman with a German Sheppard.

"Don't know her," he lied.

"Really? Then why are you carrying a picture of her?"

This time he held up a cell phone with a cracked-screen – his iPhone – displaying an image of the same dark-haired woman.

Ravotti spat another wad of bloody saliva in the man's face. Surprisingly, he didn't flinch.

"That phone cost me four-hundred bucks, jack-off!"

Calmly, the man wiped away the blood with his sleeve. "You mean a nuclear physicist like you can't find a job where they're handed out as a perk? I imagine it did set you back a few cubits; it's a really nice phone. I've been meaning to pick one of these up myself, but the problem is they're constantly sending and receiving so much data. I'm sure you people don't give it a second thought but I don't like the idea of having my whereabouts constantly monitored. Someone in your line of work should appreciate that, but like so many other people on this planet you're too self-absorbed to notice anything that isn't right in front of you. Stop and notice life moving around you now and then; next time you might notice you're being followed."

"So, what you're saying is life moves pretty fast and that we can miss it if we don't stop and notice it once in a while? Thanks for the advice Ferris Bueller! You plan to reimburse me for that phone?"

"No, I don't; you'll have to..." he trailed off as a look of surprise came across his face. He chuckled and shook his head as though he'd just remembered something funny. "You'll have to settle for an apology. Honestly, I'm sorry that I hit you so hard, but sometimes I don't know my own strength."

The man turned back to a small table just a few feet away. On it was a silver laptop. He turned it around, giving Ravotti a clear view of the screen and his own entry on the State of California's sex offender registry.

"You have an interesting history," his captor said. "Your friend, too." he nodded to Ravotti's right.

There he saw his partner, Gregerson, restrained exactly as he was. How had he not noticed him before now?

The stranger shook his head in disgust. "Obviously the comment about being self-absorbed didn't register."

Ravotti wondered whose history the stranger found more 'interesting.' As much as he was trying to play the hard-ass with his interrogator, he hoped the man disliked pedophiles more than plain rapists.

"That? That's nothing, pal."

"I know. The LAPD database is ridiculously easy to hack, as is the Sheriff's Department's. I'm not fond of sex offenders, having been mistaken for one myself, but I'm even less fond of grown men who rape young children," He nodded at the still unconscious Gregerson.

The man's pronouncement caused Ravotti to relax. _Slightly._

"That what this is really about? This guy touch your kid? Or are you the husband of some broad I raped?"

"This is about the woman you're following. I might be new around here, but even I know there's more than enough women for you to stalk and rape in North Hollywood, and her son is a little to old for your friend. I'll ask you one more time, what's so special about this woman who, at this moment, is somewhere in Malibu?"

"Malibu? Who said anything about Malibu?"

"Look behind you," the stranger replied.

It was difficult with his arms pulled up above his head, but when he did he was able to see their gold Chevy van – just one more thing about his surroundings he hadn't noticed.

"Your friends in the other van aren't very smart, and neither are you. You might as well have painted, 'We're following you Sarah,' on the side of this thing."

"Yeah, well, the Uncle didn't seem to notice."

"And you didn't notice me. I've been following your friends for two days. The guy driving the other van looked right at me while I was parked on the side of the road, and _you _didn't notice me make a u-turn right behind you."

'Fucking stupid Post,' the shackled man thought. Whoever the stranger was he seemed to be informed, as well as a step, or more, ahead of them all.

"It's too bad you're not going to be around to swap stories with them," he added.

Ravotti's whole body tensed with the pronouncement. He'd been playing with the guy so far, but he was acting tougher than he felt – and he was pretty sure his jailer knew it.

"Tell me about your GPS," he said.

"What do you wanna know?"

"The red dot, the one with a target superimposed it, that's Sarah Connor. The yellow dot is your friends in the other van who've been too stupid to notice me for the past two days. How am I doing so far?"

Ravotti laughed. "Yeah, her vehicle. That's it."

"What's so funny about _that_?"

"What's the deal with you and this Sarah Connor? You've got a nice hand-drawn picture of her, you're acting all concerned for her safety; you're sweet on her aren't you? You're going to have to wake up the cooperative one here," he nodded towards Gregerson, "because I'm not telling you another god-damned thing! Besides, what good can a 'common thug of below average intelligence' be to a smart guy like you?"

His captor smiled sadistically. "I'll thank you not to invoke God in vain, and to not make the mistake of thinking I'm just going to kill you if you don't co-operate."

The man moved in closer, locking eyes with him.

"There are worse things than dying," he said with deathly seriousness. "Let me lay it all out for you. You're in for pain one way or the other. If you keep giving me the run-around there's going to be a lot of it; if you tell me what I want to know, there'll be less. If I'm happy with your answers... _maybe _I can lose you somewhere along the way."

While his demeanor suggested that the stranger wasn't lying, the captive man had to factor in his cyborg employer; if he talked he'd be back in this same predicament when the Terminator figured it out.

And he _would_ figure it out.

"That all sounds real nice, buddy, but when my boss finds out about this it's _you _that's gonna be lost somewhere along the way. If I talk, he's gonna kill me, my partner _and _you, so why don't you let the two of us go and we'll forget this ever happened?"

From Ravotti's viewpoint it was a great offer, though logistically he knew he couldn't follow through on it; the stranger knew too much.

The stranger raised an eyebrow. "I should be scared of your boss because...?"

Ravotti laughed. "I thought you knew what all this is about?"

The stranger backed away and righted himself as an amused look came across his face. He ran his fingers across the iPhone's touch-screen several times then held it out again; this time it was showing the Terminator diagram Josh had provided him, along with the modified taser necessary to incapacitate it.

"Killer robots from the future made to look like people; am I in the Pyramid park?

'Pyramid?'

The captive man cursed silently, quickly realizing he wasn't going to find a way out of spilling his guts to his jailer, who was obviously in the know and, for reasons he couldn't fathom, not visibly disturbed by the prospect of a conflict with the death-dealing machine he called, 'Boss.'

"Alright, so you know the rumors that have been floating around this city for the past twenty-five years and you're trying to track down the Connor woman. I get it," he said, struggling against the tight fit of the handcuffs. Despite the support of the sand-bag beneath him, they were still holding a good portion of his weight which put a nearly unbearable strain on his wrists. "What you're holding there is proof that it's all real. My boss just happens to be one of those killer robots from the future and he's not going to be happy when he realizes someone's messing with the works! And he's going to realize it sooner rather than later if we don't check in with him!"

The stranger ignored his posturing – and everything else he'd just said. "You were planning on pulling a Terminator's chip, weren't you?"

His use of the proper term for the robots caused Ravotti's eyes to widen, but he remained hesitant to volunteer anything.

"I found the instructions too; where to make the incision, the hundred-twenty second time limit, it's all in the phone. So, you've got the Terminator down and you've got one hundred and twenty seconds to pull the chip. You know where it is and you know how to get to it. How do you actually disable it for the hundred and twenty seconds? I'm guessing-" He returned to the table and picked up one of their stun batons, "-that you were planning to use this?"

'Check and fucking mate,' Ravotti thought.

"Don't tell him... shut the fuck up, man," Gregerson said groggily as consciousness returned to him. "Josh is gonna waste us both!"

"Mister Gregerson, welcome back to the land of the living!" their captor said with mock cheerfulness. He dropped the taser on the table and moved around to the back of the van, disappearing from both men's view. When he returned he was carrying one of their front company's water jugs, which he proceeded to empty all over Gregerson's head, to gurgled protests, and his feet before hurling it across the room.

Then he retrieved the taser.

The stranger got right down in Gregerson's face as his captive made a pathetic attempt to back away. "You remember our little chat in the van?" He placed the tip of the weapon with its electrodes only millimeters from the shackled man's mouth. "Remember how I said it looked like more of an offensive rather than a defensive weapon? It's a little more elaborate than I first realized. This part, for instance-" He pointed to a chamber on the bottom of the weapon just beyond the trigger that looked like a housing for a projectile, "-isn't standard equipment. I'm guessing you use it with these." He pulled a small dart from the pocket of his cargo pants and dangled it in front of the man's face. "Neither of you are brave enough to walk up to a Terminator and stun it at point blank range, so that means these darts are meant to take it down from a distance. How?"

"Y-y-you're just gonna have to off me, man, cuz I'm not saying anything," Gregerson stammered, struggling in vain to get out of his restraints.

Looking like he'd expected it, their captor smiled and pressed the taser into the center of his other captive's chest. He leaned in closer, his lips only inches from his captive's ear, and set his voice to a whisper.

"I know this hurt the first time. I've been what you'd call a 'spy' for a long time. One of my first assignments saw me working in a slaughterhouse as cover. You really don't appreciate the violence inherit in the process of food production until you've seen a cow get one of these things shoved up its ass, and even they took it with more grace than you did! You should have seen yourself fall over, writhing on the floor like a worm, but that was nothing compared to the way you flew out of the seat when I pulled the trigger. I thought you were gonna blast through the roof like a rocket! How much worse do you think it's going to be with you soaking wet?"

Gregerson whimpered, bleeding profusely at the wrists as he tried in vain to pull his hands through the shackles. The jailer drew back and took up position in front of the captive man. He pressed the stun baton into the arc of the man's right foot.

"Are either of you familiar with the term, 'falanga?' That's what it's called here, anyway; where I come from we don't have a proper name for it. It's a method of torture that involves beating a person on the soles of their feet. It's a lot more painful than you'd think; most people just don't appreciate how sensitive that area of the body is. I'm not interested in stretching this out, so we're going to use these magnificent little toys of yours to improve on the technique."

He pulled the trigger.

Gregerson seized in pain and let loose an eardrum-shattering howl Ravotti had never heard the like of as an untold amount of voltage passed through him.

After a few seconds – though he imagined it seemed like forever to his partner – he pulled the device away. He turned to Ravotti and said, "I told you I didn't think highly of pedophiles, but I should warn you that rapists aren't that much higher up on the evolutionary scale-"

Ravotti felt the nerves in his own feet twitching. "Hold up, man, you said you'd let us live if we co-operated!"

"No fucking way," Gregerson said, his own mouth now bleeding profusely; he'd obviously bit his tongue when he'd been tazed. "The van iff lojacked! We don't check in with the boff and he'f gonna twack it down, and that'f the end of thif guy!"

"Shut up you stupid moron!" Ravotti shouted at his partner. "If Josh finds us here like this it's the end of us! It's the end of _you _too-"

When he turned his attention back to their captor, the man was holding the empty housing of a radio-frequency transmitter – one that had been affixed to the bottom of their van and would have been used by Josh to track it – for them to see.

"If you were able to track the other van it stood to reason they could track you. I left the beacon in a ditch along the highway. I also swept your van for any other hidden devices and pulled any circuitry that could send or receive a signal out of you cellular phones. Killer robot or not, we don't have to worry about your 'boff.'"

Both men slouched, as much as they were capable, in defeat.

"Now, getting back to the matter of your stun weapons, I saw the scopes, as well as the trigger, stock and butt attachments in your van; it's obvious you were planning on firing these darts from a distance like rifles. I'll ask you again, how do they work?"

"They leave a twail of colowed fmoke when they'we fiwed," Gregerson slurred,

"That's very funny," their captor shot back, feigning amusement.

Then he stepped forward and pressed the baton into the pitiful man's foot a second time.

"I'm not going to tell you what voltage I used the last time; needless to say it was quite a bit lower than one would use on a victim that wasn't soaking wet. Why don't we kick it up a notch?"

"N-no! Pwease," Gregerson cried, tears now streaming down his face.

"I imagine that's what those young boys said when you were sodomizing them. Did _you _stop?"

Again he pulled the trigger, and Gregerson tensed up even more tightly and violently than he had before. His initial screams were choked out almost immediately as his vocal chords were crushed by the intense spasms of the surrounding muscle groups.

Ravotti knew from experience that a typical tazing by the police lasted about five seconds; the stranger kept it up just a bit longer. For Gregerson's sake he was glad their captor seemed to know not to apply the shock during the t-wave cycle, as he'd not sent the man into ventricular tachycardia

When he was finished he turned casually to Ravotti and point the stun baton at him. "Your turn. How do these darts stop a Terminator?"

"Inside the dart is a mini-EMP generator. It scrambles electronic circuitry in a bubble seven feet around it. Once they're in cybernetic la-la land we go in and pull the chip."

"And these things have no effect on humans?"

"No. Well, it could take out an eye, and if it hit you in the Adam's apple that would probably kill you, but other than that... It would hurt like hell, but that's it."

"You know, I want to believe you. I really do. The trouble is you two haven't exactly been model captives."

With a skill that suggested he was far more familiar with the device than he should be he loaded the dart he'd been dangling in front of his partner's face moments earlier.

"I'm going to have to see for myself," he said as he aimed it at the pathetic, soaked and bleeding Gregerson.

And fired.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

* * *

I forgot to mention in the last chapter that John and Charley's discussion as well as John's private thoughts regarding "El Viejo" were inspired by a terminated scene from _To the Lighthouse _included on the TSCC Season Two DVD, transcribed for me by my excellent beta-reader, TaleWeaver.

Also, there is no such place as "Hoover Airfield" and to my knowledge there is no recently built annex to the J. Edgar Hoover Federal Building. Hoover Airfield, however, was inspired by the real-life "Hoover Field," which sat on a plot of land very close to the modern-day Pentagon and which was the first airport in Washington D.C.

The twelve images seen on the diagnostic monitor when John Henry is reactivated are the twelve kings of Persian Babylonia.

In Chapter 14 I introduced the I-950s "Lauren" and "Raymond." Since these are main (original) characters I should probably give you some faces to go with the names; were I to be casting Lauren I would select actress Piper Perabo for the role. Were I to be casting Raymond I would pick actor Steven Weber.

Along those same lines, in this Chapter Lauren addresses three T-800s identified as Models 99, 100 and 102; just for fun, I envision Model 99 as Roland Kickinger – the body double used for Arnold's character in _Terminator Salvation_, Model 102 as Franco Columbo – bodybuilder friend of Arnold who portrayed a T-800 in the original _Terminator_ and Model 100 (the girl) as notable female bodybuilder Sharon Bruneau. Are we noticing a theme with these early models?

Congratulations to Jesse Daro for being the 100th reviewer of this story (damn if it only took a year and two months!) . If you've not read her fantastic stories _Blackout (_http:/ www. fanfiction. net/s/5955255/1/Blackout_) _and _Awake (_http:/ www. fanfiction. net/s/5977648/1/Awake), do so immediately after you review this chapter!


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